


Make a Thing Go Right

by hansbekhart



Series: Do it Til We Get it Right [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Daredevil (TV), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: 9/11 Attacks (mention), Biphobia, Bisexual Character of Color, Bisexual Male Character, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinogens, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Police Brutality, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Racism, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Stop & Frisk, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-04-05 21:19:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 100,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4195266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam meets Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes on a Thursday night, at a burlesque show, and how it happens is this:</p><p>It's already late, later than he should be out on a weeknight, but the theme of the show was a super hero revue and there was no way he was gonna miss that.  It's loud in the venue, which is the back space of what probably used to be a warehouse right near the Gowanus Canal, and Sam's already had a few.  He's up at the bar during the break, watching the act.  He doesn't hear someone say, "Behind!" so when he steps away from the bar, he smashes right into the guy who'd just done the Captain America routine up on stage, and knocks his drinks to the ground.</p><div class="center">
  <p>-</p>
</div>Or, I wanted to see more stories that captured the weirdness and complexity of being queer, in your late 20s, and trying to date in Brooklyn - which is my life - so I wrote one.  Takes place in the MCU.
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story would not be half of what it is without [sonickitty](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sonickitty/pseuds/sonickitty). It is so crazy rare as a writer to have someone who is as excited about the story as you are, as invested in it, as willing to spend hours in research and story structure and talking it to death, and I couldn't be more grateful for all of the support, advice and love they sent my way.
> 
> Thank you as always to my betas [essenceofmeanin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofmeanin/pseuds/essenceofmeanin) and [Scappodaqui](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui) \- you guys are fucking awesome for putting up with me blabbing about this story for literally months before I ever started writing it.
> 
> There is a now also a [soundtrack!](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/123237456718/make-a-thing-go-right)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads this. This is a complex story, that deals with a lot of complex issues. There is a lot in here that are things I have personally experienced, but a lot that does not belong to me and never could. This story is not meant to represent any one way of living - as a person of color, as a transgender person, as a disabled person, as someone who lives with PTSD or mental illness - and there's no way it ever could, as there's no right way to be any of these things. I've tried to be as true and respectful of that as I know how to be, but good intentions are still a good way to fuck up. If there is anything in this story that you are offended or hurt by - please let me know (nicely, if possible), or do better than me and write it the way it should be. My [tumblr askbox](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hansbekhart) is open.

 

Sam Wilson meets Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes on a Thursday night, at a burlesque show, and how it happens is this:

It's already late, later than he should be out on a weeknight, but the theme of the show was a super hero revue and there was no way he was gonna miss that.  He's up at the bar during the break, getting drinks for his sister Lou and her friend, who also have to be up early in the morning and have vowed this round to be the last.  It's loud in the venue, which is the back space of what probably used to be a warehouse right near the Gowanus Canal, and Sam's already had a few.  He's watching the stage kitten out of the corner of his eye, down on her hands and knees to retrieve a garter belt.  He doesn't hear someone say, "Behind!" so when he steps away from the bar, he smashes right into the guy who'd just done the Captain America routine up on stage, and knocks his drinks to the ground.

A little bit ends up down the back of Sam's shirt, but most of it goes all over Captain America, who fumbles one glass right into his chest and drops the other two outright.  They're plastic, so there's no harm except the sudden wave of beer smell over both of them.  For a second, they only stare at each other in shock.

Up close, the guy is even tinier than he'd looked on stage, the kind of small that makes you really think about it - the sharp wings of his collarbone, the gentle concave angle of his forearms, the knobbly bones in his wrist as he _puts up his fists_ , braced like Sam's gonna take a swing at him.

"Whoa!" Sam says quickly, and holds his own hands up, palms out.  "I didn't see you there, man.  Let me buy you - whatever all that was.  Hang on."

He turns back to the bartender, who's watching with a wry look on his face. "Whatever all that was," Sam shouts, gesturing, "and a towel?  Maybe two."

The bartender snaps a towel at him, which Sam catches one handed.  He fixes his face in an apologetic expression and turns back around, half expecting to catch a punch right to the nose.  "Sorry again," he says, and hands the towel over.  

"S'okay," the guy says.  The look on his face says it isn't.  "No harm done, I guess," he says, sponging ineffectively at the front of his gauzy dressing gown.  He's absolutely _covered_ in glitter, and now the towel is also.

It's hard not to say sorry again, just to be able to say _something_.  "Great set," Sam says instead, and takes the towel back so he can wipe up the floor.

"Thanks," the guy says, and squints down at him.  "Don't you come to the shows at the Way Station?  Like, a lot?  I feel like I've seen you there a bunch."

"Yeah," Sam says, and laughs, a little embarrassed.  "I uh, I live pretty close.  And, you know, Doctor Who bar, nerd burlesque - it's kinda my jam."

"Yeah," the guy says, and his face relaxes, just a little bit.  "It's a good spot.  We usually get a pretty decent crowd there."

"How long you been doing this?" Sam asks.  The bartender interrupts the answer, shouting, "here ya go, Steve," and pushing three fresh drinks out.  Sam's still crouched under the bar, wiping up the beer, so the guy - Steve - eels his way around Sam to corral them into something he can carry.  Head turned, Sam can see the gleam of a hearing aid wrapped around his ear.  

"Couple years," Steve answers, when Sam's upright again, the sticky towel collected by the bartender and dropped somewhere out of sight.  Steve raises one of his new drinks for Sam to clink his own against, and they both drink deeply.  It's a strange feeling, drinking with the guy - like Sam's talking to a minor celebrity, and also someone in their underwear, both of which are true.  

"I liked that costume you had - what, two weeks ago?" Sam asks.  "The one from _Assault on the Axis!_  That reel's been out of print for like forty years, where'd you get a copy?"

Steve's head cocks to one side, and Steve gets his first full blown grin of the night, sunny and surprised.  "Managed to score an original print online," he answers.  "You actually recognized it?  Took me fuckin weeks to track down the right shape helmet.  How do you know about _Assault on the Axis!_?"

And there's a catch in his throat here, but he's gotten better and better at pushing through it.  "My grandpa collected the comics," he says.  "Had boxes and boxes of them.  Had almost all the reels, too.   _Sabotage on the Home Front_ was his favorite, I musta watched that one a hundred times when I was a kid."

"That's awesome," Steve says, a little too eagerly - like he's about ready to go break into Sam's grandparents' house to get his hands on it.

"So you live in Brooklyn?" Steve asks after a pause, a little more casually.  He turns briefly, to catch the eye of someone behind him.  When Sam follows the look, it's directed towards this hot white guy in the corner Sam's been sneaking longing glances at for half the night - who's watching them intently, something wary and alert in the set of his body that Sam recognizes intimately.  

Which annoyingly doesn't make him any _less_ hot, once seen.  Sam sighs, internally.  "Yeah, I'm in Prospect Heights," he answers, watching a brief nod be exchanged between the two, the hot guy relaxing minutely and turning back to watch the stage kitten exit stage right.

"Fancy," Steve comments.  

"Yeah, it's my sister's place," Sam says.  They're both shouting a little, the music just loud enough to make it difficult to talk.  He can't tell if Steve's reading his lips or if the aid he's got helps enough that it's not an issue.  It seems rude to ask.  "I just moved here last month, I'm doing my Masters up at Hunter.  I'm Sam, by the way.  Sam Wilson."

"Steve Rogers," the guy says, and sticks out a hand.

"Sure, why not," Sam says, grinning.  "You really go by that?  What do they call you when you're at home?"

"Steve Rogers," Steve says again, and his jaw firms back up like Sam's gonna make something of it.   _Jesus_ , Sam thinks, _this guy_ , but without any real concern to it.  Steve hooks an elbow over the bar, shrugging one narrow shoulder.  From this angle the look on his face is less mulish and more awkward.  "It's actually - I mean, it started as a joke, when I was a kid.  I was always getting into fights, and the older I got and - it just stuck with me.  Nowadays I figure, why the hell not?  There are worse people to be."

"You do look a lot like the real thing," Sam says, "pre-serum," they both add at the same time, and Steve laughs.

"Too bad no one's gonna pick me up in Queens and turn me into the ideal man," Steve says, and wipes an imaginary tear from his eye.  "Oh, that's not a bad idea for a routine."

"I haven't even been to Queens yet," Sam says, and Steve shakes his head.

"Then you got that in common with a lot of Brooklyn.  How're you liking it here so far?"

"Good," Sam says, because it is, more or less.  You can't expect to love a place right off the bat, before you've had a chance to make any friends or build a life someplace.  "Well, it's a lot different than what I'm used to."

Steve nods, knowingly.  "Yeah, New York can be a lot to deal with, if you're not from here."

"Yeah," Sam says, "but actually I just, uh, I just got out of the service.  Spent most of the last few years in Afghanistan."

He's expecting a blank look, maybe, or that disdainful curiosity of civvies: _did you kill people?  Did you really think you were gonna find WMDs?  Did you ever get shot at?  Are you obsessed with guns?_  Instead, Steve nods again and says, "Clothes shopping, right?"

"What?" Sam asks.

"Clothes shopping," Steve repeats, and takes another quick look over his shoulder.  "Too many choices.  Skinny jeans, baggy jeans, a million different kind of shirts.  Who needs that many fucking shoes?"

"Why even have all this shit," Sam says, and laughs.  He lifts his drink up to Steve's and they cheers again.  "You over there yourself or something?"

"Oh yeah," Steve says, and rolls his eyes, absently rubbing two fingers over some faint scars on his ribs, barely visible through his gown. "Can't ya see me in the Army?  Not even after DADT got repealed.  I'd be a worse recruit than the first Steve Rogers."

"You seem pretty scrappy to me," Sam says, and thinks, _fuck it_.  "I still can't believe that got repealed, sometimes.  It made it real hard to be there, when it was still in force."  He tips the last of his beer into his mouth rather than look for Steve's reaction, and signals to the bartender for another.  There's a brief, mostly wordless argument that ends with Steve allowing Sam to buy him another beer.  The glasses for Lou and whoever Steve's buying for sit in a huddle between them, condensation slowly pooling on the bar, and Steve looks at them, and then at Sam, considering.

Unexpectedly, he grins.  "Hey, lemme introduce you to my best friend.  His name's Bucky."

"Bucky," Sam repeats, and can't help but laugh. "Of course.  Sure, Rogers - let's go meet Bucky."

Bucky is the hot guy in the corner, of course.  Long, messy hair haphazardly pulled into a hippie bun, little pieces of it escaping and curling towards his mouth.  Broad shoulders under a beat up leather jacket, like every trashy fantasy Sam's ever had.  Huge blue eyes, pale in the light of the bar, that darken with interest as they detour to drop Lou's drink off and then wash up at his table, Steve sliding a drink towards him.  

"Hiya," he says, and smiles at Sam in a way that hits him low in the gut.

"Sam, this is Bucky Barnes," Steve says.  "Bucky, this is Sam Wilson."

" _Stop_ ," the guy groans, and reaches out to shake Sam's hand.  "It's James.  Sorry, don't listen to him - he's fulla shit.  Nice to meet you, Sam."

"Don't tell me your last name's really Barnes," Sam says, as they all settle in.

"It is, yeah," James says, and takes a sip of his drink.  He's got one elbow up on the table, the other hand loose and relaxed in his lap.  Even over the humid grease smell of the bar and the beer stink Steve's wafting around, he smells great.  "Before you ask - yeah, Bucky Barnes was my great-great uncle; yeah, I was named after him; no, my middle name is not Buchanan -"

"It's still pretty bad," Steve says.

"- it's not that bad," James says, almost overlapping, "so now you know me, Sam.  How about you?"

"I, uh, I'm new in town," Sam says.  "Just started the Master's program up at Hunter.  I live in Prospect Heights."

"Fancy," James says, and Sam laughs, a little awkwardly.  

"I guess so," he answers.  "I don't know different, so."

"Where're you from?" James asks, and Sam watches Steve's eyes flicker back and forth between the two of them.  He wonders what their deal is; from the look on James' face as he'd watched them at the bar, he would've assumed they were together.  But Steve's leaning back as much as James is leaning in, no competition for either one of their attention.  

"Grew up in DC," he says, "lot of places since.  Spent time in Lackland, Texas, not my favorite place."

James' eyebrow lifts.  A bit of recognition at the name but he doesn't chase it, instead asking, "How are you liking New York?"

Sam shrugs, tips his gaze over to Steve.  "You wanna tell him, since we just had this conversation five minutes ago?"

James starts laughing.  "Sorry, Sam," he says, "Small talk sucks, we can skip that part."

"You sure?" Sam asks.  "You don't wanna ask what I do and how much I pay for my apartment next?"

"Boring," James says, in answer.  "I'm sure you got better stories."

"Sure, man," Sam says, easy, "I got stories."

James' eyes widen, just a fraction.  He doesn't say anything, just stares at Sam with open, frank interest.  "So how about you?" Sam asks, after a moment - feeling a little exposed.  "Where you from?"

"Brooklyn," James says, briefly.  "Born and bred, both of us."

"Oh yeah?" Sam says.  "You guys are native New Yorkers, huh?  Guess you've seen a lot of changes here since you were a kid."

James' eyes flicker around the bar with amusement, taking in the details - the microbrews available at the bar, the affluent-looking crowd, the burlesque dancer onstage, covered head to toe in tattoos.  "There definitely didn't used to be so many nice places to brunch," he says.

"This whole neighborhood was a toxic wasteland," Steve huffs.  "Still is.  The Canal's a Superfund site, but they still built a Whole Foods right next to it."

"Did you grow up around here?" Sam asks, and they exchange a glance.

"Nah, we're in Crown Heights," James answers.  "Been a lot of changes there too, though."

"So many fuckin white people moved in," Steve says, sounding amazed, but he grins when Sam bursts out laughing.  "Yeah, I know, but it's _weird_.  I used to have cab drivers refuse to drop me off on our block.  Although at least I could _get_ a cab, even if I had to fight 'em to take me to Brooklyn."

"Y'all are adorable," Sam tells them, because they are, and he means it because he doesn't assume white folk even notice shit like that, but James just grins, slow and lazy and wide, the kind of smile Sam could fall right into and stay awhile.

"Well, I gotta get back up on stage in a bit," Steve says, into the brief pause that settles over the table, when Sam forgets to say anything else.  He slips off his stool, grabbing his beer and the spare.  "You two kids play nice."  He drops an honest-to-god _wink_ at Sam, and wiggles off backstage.

"Subtle," James says, watching him go.

"We being yenta'd?" Sam asks, testing the waters.

"Yeah," James answers, shaking his head.  "He thinks I don't get out enough."

_Cool_ , Sam thinks, and takes a drink.   _That answers that, at least._  "Do you?" he asks.  James looks at him, a little blankly.  "Get out enough?"

James snorts.  "What's _enough?_  I'm here, ain't I?  And look at that, I made a friend."

Sam huffs a laugh.  James holds his eyes just long enough to make the point and looks away, back up towards the stage, where the emcee has come out to introduce the next act.  Sam's seen the girl before; she's performed a few times at the Way Station and the crowd is usually politely interested, nothing that goes too hot.  Tonight she's the Human Torch in a silk negligee, slowly peeling one flame colored glove off at a time.  Steve's nowhere to be seen, and Sam wonders if he really does have another act.  

“So what unit you with?” James asks.  

“58th Pararescue,” Sam answers, and looks back towards his new - _friend_.  "That obvious, huh?"

"Eh, you got the look," James says, and his expression says that's a compliment.  

"What about you?" Sam asks, and James laughs.

"Classified," he says.  

"Yeah?" Sam says.  He'd leaned forward a bit, unconsciously, and James mirrors the motion, his knee pressing in against Sam's, one heavy boot coming to rest on the bottom rung of Sam's bar stool.  

"Yeah," he says, and Sam shrugs.  Presses his own leg up against James'.  He used to fantasize about something like this happening.  Being out on leave, or even somewhere on base, somewhere there were guys around, relaxing, and he'd get talking to one of them, and they'd know exactly what was on his mind.  

"You got that look about you too," Sam says, and James says, a little rueful, "Don't I know it."

He'd gotten read that way, once or twice, but he'd never done much about it.  A friendly handjob in the showers, nothing the other guys weren't doing too.  Didn't stop him from jerking off to the thought of it, often enough to move through denial, shame and then real curiosity, once he knew he'd be going home soon enough.

"So what do you do, now that you're out?" Sam asks.

"Guess," James says, and then right on the heels of that, "you'll never guess.  I teach yoga."

Sam rocks back a little in his seat, and hides his grin in his fist.  He looks over his shoulder towards the back of the bar, where Lou and her friend are just about finished with their drinks.  She catches him looking and raises an eyebrow at him, and a cautious thumbs up.  He returns it.  "I would not have guessed that," he says, turning back.  "Is this where I ask just how flexible you are?"

"Sure," James says, grinning.  "If you wanna be a cheesy motherfucker about it, go ahead and ask."

He's never been shy, with girls.  Even ones as shameless as James is being.  The rules shouldn't be too different, but.  He thinks of saying, _If I was gonna be cheesy, I'd just ask how you like your eggs in the morning._  Or _by the way, I'm so fucking new to this._  Because maybe he should.  Maybe that's something you tell a guy, before you see if he'll take you home.

"Hey, uh - I need a cigarette," James says.  "You smoke?"

"Sometimes," Sam says, even though the answer is not really, hardly ever, but yeah, sometimes is close enough, and gets to take a good look at James' ass as he follows him out of the stage area, dodging through the crowd.  It's a good one, nice and bubbly, not one of those flat white boy asses, and maybe Sam's a bit more drunk than he'd thought, sitting down.  Lou's already gone; Steve's up at the bar in the front area, but James pays him no mind, leading Sam straight out the door and around the corner.

Nothing but grim, desolate looking warehouses and the vaguely briney smell of the Gowanus Canal: Brooklyn at its finest.  Standing up, James is taller than Sam, with legs that go on for miles.  He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to Sam.  Belatedly, Sam sees a single glove on James' left hand, the one he'd kept mostly under the table, like some kind of Michael Jackson fashion statement.  Brooklyn was a weird place.

James lights his cigarette for him, his eyes fixed on Sam's face.  It's heady, to look up and meet that blue eyed stare.  Outside, under the yellow glow of the street lamps, he looks less confident than he'd seemed in the bar.  He licks his lips when the cigarette's not between them, one shoulder up against the brick wall of the bar, his gloved hand loose and half hidden behind his leg.  

"I don't do this much anymore," he says.  His voice is surprisingly soft, now that they're outside and don't have to yell at each other to be heard.  Back around the corner, Sam can hear laughter, bright and ringing through the empty streets.  He takes a drag of his cigarette, feels it fill his lungs and start to buzz around in his veins.  They're standing close enough together that he doesn't even have to step forward to kiss James.

James tastes of beer, and his cigarette, and he groans into Sam's mouth, wet and hungry.  His stubble scrapes over Sam's chin, the kind of burn Sam's been dreaming of since he stepped off that plane and into the rest of his life.  He surges up into Sam, who crowds him roughly back against the wall, feeling the shock of impact in his own body.  And _fuck_ it's good, the smell of his cologne and the leather jacket, the stretch of Sam's neck as he reaches _up_ , the hard muscles he can feel against his own chest.  

There's a moment where Sam thinks, distant and triumphant, that it's really going to happen.  That this is really happening.  James' hips are tilted forward and he can _feel_ him, the line of James' cock through his jeans, pressed up against Sam's thigh, and it's fucking _amazing_.  His cigarette drops out of his fingers and he brings both hands up to frame James' face.

Who jerks back, head colliding with a hollow thump against the brick, and shoves Sam away.

There's a moment of sharp hurt and confusion, a second where he stumbles back and can't find his balance.  Then he sees the look on James' face, and whatever protest is in his throat dies away.  

James reaches up, cautiously, feeling the back of his skull.  His eyes are huge and fearful.  There's a strange whirring noise coming from his jacket, like the old VCR Sam's folks still have in their basement.  

"You coulda said no," Sam says, cautious. "If I was misreading the situation."

"Wasn't, um," James says.  "I - _fuck_."  He looks down at the cigarette in his right hand, and fumbles in his pocket to relight it.  The whirring noise gets softer and then quiets, abruptly.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

"Yep," James says.  His hair's a mess, sticking up in a brown halo around his head, and he tugs the elastic out, raking his fingers through it absently.  "Sorry, this was -"

"It's all right," Sam says, even though he's still hard and kinda drunk and fuck he's gonna feel this in the morning.  "I mean. I know how it is, I've been - it's cool.  You probably - It's why I'm getting certified as a therapist, all this shit that soldiers -"

He trails off.  James' face has gone completely, unnervingly blank, like someone just cut his strings.  "Therapist," he repeats, and finally looks directly at Sam, who takes a step back instinctively.  "Huh."

"Yeah," Sam says.  "There a problem here?"

James shakes his head.  "Not with you," he says, and sighs.  He takes another drag off the cigarette, some life coming back into his eyes.  "Nice to meet you, Sam.  Sorry I - sorry."

He turns away, and Sam lets him, standing rooted to the pavement long after he's gone.

-

Sam's alarm goes off at 5:45 every morning.  Some days, he's actually still sleeping.

He's out of bed by 6, to stretch before he pulls his sneakers and sweatpants on and heads out the door.  He heads south on Underhill, and does the half loop in Prospect Park, the full one on Tuesdays and Wednesdays when he only has afternoon classes.  For Mondays and Thursdays, he's found a hidden clearing in the park, tucked away down a ravine from the joggers and dog walkers on the main path, where he does an eight minute AMRAP, whatever he feels like doing that day and can accomplish standing in the middle of a field with no chin up bar or weights.

He takes Vanderbilt back up most days, picks up coffees and pastries to share with Lou.  His first few weeks in Brooklyn he'd run the neighborhood, but he was stopped by police half the times he crossed Nostrand and it left a sour taste in his mouth.  Lou's usually waking up right around the time he gets back, stumbling around fuzzy eyed in her cap and glasses, and they have a bit of time to hang out and eat breakfast together before she has to head to work and he has to get to class.  

They take the train in together, Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays.  Lou's in finance, works downtown doing something she's explained to him a hundred times that's never once stuck.  She'll doze on his shoulder from Grand Army Plaza to Wall St, when she'll step up on her toes, give him a kiss on the cheek goodbye and vanish into the crowds without ever really snapping out of the commuter daze.  He transfers at the stop after to the express train, squeezing tighter and tighter as the train packs full on its way up the island, and gets out at 59th rather than transferring a third time to the 6 for the 68th St stop.  Then class.  Then homework.  Then back to Brooklyn.

Wednesday is comic book day, and Sam never misses it.  He's back in Brooklyn around 7 or so, one stop before his own to hit up the comic shop on Bergen.  The guy that runs it is this black hipster dude, maybe Sam's age or a bit older, who looks at the white kids who come into his shop with utter disdain but likes Sam all right, even if he thinks Captain America's an aberration.  The Wednesday after - well, the Wednesday after, he becomes Sam's first friend in Brooklyn.

"Hey Tim," Sam calls, the shop bells tinkling over his head.

"Hey brother," Tim calls absently from behind the counter, and they pass the next half hour or so in companionable silence as Sam browses the stacks.  His subscriptions are waiting for him when he steps up to the counter, in a neat little stack at Tim's elbow.  To the pile, he usually adds a trade or two, maybe something that Tim's recommended, whose taste runs to the indies and the strange.

"You alright, man?" Tim asks.  Sam startles, a little; he'd been staring off out the shop windows, watching Brooklyn pass by.

"Sure, sure," Sam answers, a little vaguely, and Tim arches one eyebrow at him.  Sam clears his throat.  He hasn't spoken to anyone since he said goodbye to Lou this morning.  "Had a weird week, you know how it is."

Tim shrugs.  "Yeah, I hear that."  He looks up at Sam, Sam's credit card held thoughtfully between both hands.  "You okay, though?  You're usually a nice little bit of sunshine, on my Wednesdays.  Break up the monotony of all these fuckin' hipsters."

Sam hesitates.  He knows Tim is gay.  It'd be hard not to.  He's campy as a rule, and most weeks has a bit of eyeshadow on, and the Black Panther drag he's usually wearing is offset by a curling mustache of fantastic proportions.  The store's empty, but it - he always hesitates.

"I met this guy last week," he says, finally, because maybe it's one of those things that gets easier the more you do it.  Tim's mustache twitches, patiently waiting for the rest.  "I liked him.  I thought we were hitting it off, and then he just split.  I can't get it out of my head."

Tim's frowning a little, maybe in that _you don't **look** gay_ sort of way, which is fine because Sam's not, he doesn't think, even if he can't quite figure out a name for it that sounds like his life.  Even if maybe it would be easier if he _did_ look it - or harder in a different way, he guesses.

"He's a veteran, too," Sam says, and leafs through a stack of dollar comics sitting on up on the counter, just to have something to do with his hands.  "Like me.  I'm, uh - I was just discharged this year.  Maybe that's why it's just - sticking with me.  He seemed like he was in bad shape."

"Dude just ghosted on you?" Tim says, and the mustache quirks up at the corner.  "That's pretty dumb.  I mean, has he _seen_ you?"

Sam laughs, a pleased little burst of warmth, and Tim smiles broadly at him.  "Aw, look.  There's that sunshine.  There's that cute little gap in your smile I look forward to all week."

"Aren't you a married man?" Sam says, still laughing.

Tim shrugs, placid.  "He don't mind if I look," he says, and the smile softens.  "But hey, don't get too down on it.  This is a big city.  Plenty of fuckboys in it, who just wanna mess with your head.  Good news is, you'll never see them again."

"Yeah," Sam says, although he can't help the little jab of disappointment, not the least of which is losing his first local.  

The credit card machine buzzes, and the bells tinkle as a few customers enter the shop.  Tim turns a flat, unwelcoming eye on them, and hands Sam his receipt and card back.  "See you next week, Sam," he says, and Sam says, "you wanna grab a beer sometime?"

Tim blinks at him, clearly surprised.  "I'm new in town," Sam says, even though the silence doesn't feel awkward.  "I could use some more friends than my sister, especially ..."

"Gay friends?" Tim asks, mustache twitching, "or nerd friends?"

Sam shrugs.  "Yeah, okay," Tim says, and takes the receipt back to scribble down his phone number.  "I like new friends too, especially when they're cute."

It feels good to tuck Tim's number in his pocket, and make vague plans to hang early next week, and the good feeling lasts him through the walk home and most of the night, sitting alone in his sister's apartment with his comics and the downstairs neighbor's stereo to keep him company.  It lasts almost until he turns the light out and settles into bed, and stares sleepless and blind through the curtains of his window until his alarm buzzes 5:45, and it starts all over again.

-

But he does see them again, two weeks later. 

It's a warehouse party, somewhere in the nebulous zone between Bushwick and Bed Stuy, a block or so off from the rumbly elevated train on a street that gives even Sam a little pause.  Lou's explanation had been vague - "An art thing, maybe?" and when they get there it's crushingly loud and jammed full of people, like something out of a movie - more or less what Sam had expected Brooklyn warehouse parties to look like.

There's a cash bar somewhere but they'd brought their own, he and Lou and some of Lou's Manhattan friends jammed into a corner on the third floor, trying to dance.  It's a mixed crowd, still skewed more young and white than anything else, and there is in fact art up on the walls, and a wide platform that's held a revolving door of performers since they arrived.  

He probably should've recognized the girls up on stage, but it's a lot, being in the crush of people.  Everyone looks like they're dressed up for Halloween and it's loud and hectic even when there's someone up on stage, the floors vibrating from the music pounding on the other floors.  He'd never been one of those guys that cultivated hyper vigilance, scoping out every exit and threat, but he's been fending creepers off Lou and her friends for half the night, and they'd pre-gamed at Lou's before piling everyone into a cab.  So he's surprised, to glance out over the party and see Steve, standing up on the stage in an oversized Army combat uniform.

"Isn't that - ?" Lou asks, and gives his wrist a little squeeze when he nods.

It's one of those torch singer sort of songs, the kind Sam always imagined being sung in lounges back in the day, just a woman in an evening gown, alone in her spotlight.  A saxophone lays uneasily over the thump and bass of the other floors, sounding heavy and drugged.  The uniform Steve's got on is devoid of any insignia or rank, just something he might have picked up at an Army Surplus, even his field cap awkwardly large on his head.

Most times he's seen Steve perform it's been for laughs, vaudeville burlesque and the absurdity of his bony male body against the curves of his fellow performers.  Tonight he moves slow and graceful, his face dreamy and stunned looking.  His arms skimming uncertainly over his own body, like he's not sure what he'll find.

"Yeah if you should lose me," the woman sings, "you'll lose a good thing."

Shaking his jacket off one shoulder at a time, carefully controlled.  There's padding on the shoulders and down his stomach, bulking him out enough that he'd almost looked natural in the uniform, and this is stripped off in turn and kicked away.  Under the padding is the usual t-shirt, and under the trousers he's wearing a pair of lacy, delicate panties that he reveals by inches, narrow hips swaying.

And yeah, Sam gets it.  It's about as subtle as a hammer.  But it doesn't make it any easier to watch, and he turns away.

Trouble finds him anyway a little while later, waiting at the bar for another drink.  They're all fucking tiki themed drinks, the chalked menu dissolving in the heat and humidity of the crowd, and Sam's watching despairingly as the bartender mixes god only knows what instead of the whiskey soda he'd ordered.

"You got me in big trouble the other week," comes a voice from behind him, and really Sam should've figured.

"Hey, Rogers," Sam says, turning around. "How you been?"

Steve's back in his dressing gown, his stage makeup looking a little worn, a red Solo cup in one hand.  He shrugs, the look on his face a little wry.  "Haven't seen you at the Way," he says.  

Without talking about it they drift away from the bar, letting other people belly up in the space they leave behind.  "Yeah, I thought it might be weird," Sam admits, and they tuck themselves into a little alcove, protected a little from the thump of the bass and the flow of the crowd.

"Not for me," Steve says.  "He thought I set you up with him because you're a therapist."

"I'm not, I'm in school," Sam says, even though he knows that's not the point.  He looks around for his sister and her friends; god only knows where they've gone.  "What the hell's his deal, anyway?" he bursts out, and then looks away, takes a sip of his drink.  It's awful and cloying, and way too fucking strong.  He drank better in high school.

Next to him, he can feel Steve fidgeting, dipping a hand between the folds of his gown to scratch absently at his pasties.  "He's - he doesn't like me telling the story," Steve says, finally.  "Sam, you know what it's like over there.  You know the shit that happens to people, how they come back."

It hits him like a fist, and he thinks for a petulant moment that it's not _fair_ for Steve to talk like that, like he _knows_.  He takes a breath, and lets that thought go.  Obviously Steve knows something about something or they wouldn't be talking.  He looks back at Steve and nods, grudgingly.  "Well, it was worse for him than most," Steve says, fierce.  "All right?"

"Why's he hate therapists?" Sam asks, because he can't argue that, some unknowable, invisible scale of trauma.

"Why do you think?  He had to go to a lot of them, when he first got back.  Still does, at least for the," Steve gestures vaguely, but doesn't elaborate.  "He got tired of it.  And I don't blame him for that, but he doesn't, uh, believe me."

Sam takes another sip of his drink instead of answering.  Part of him's wondering why he's even here, talking to this guy like they're friends.  "Maybe if you stop trying to set him up with random dudes," he says, even though he knows that's not the point either.

"I thought he'd like you," Steve says.  "He _did_ like you."

Sam turns away again, because he really doesn't have anything to say to that.  They sit in silence for a long minute, watching the party from their little corner.  The emcee from Steve's burlesque troupe is up on stage, resplendently topless, her breasts full and perfect even at a distance, her hair like fire under the lights.  The crowd's going nuts, surged up close to the stage, but far away in their little corner it might as well be happening on Mars.

"He's here, if you wanted to give it another shot," Steve says, eventually.  "He's a good guy.  The best."

"Stop matchmaking," Sam tells him, and Steve laughs.  Sam stares down at his feet, the sticky warehouse floor underneath them, flashing yellow, pink, green.  "Alright, fine," he says, and drains the rest of his drink.  "Where is he?"

"Roof," Steve says.  "And thanks.  I know it's not super reassuring to have some rando tell you, 'my friend is not a crazy person,' but -"

"It's not," Sam says, and he can't help but crack a smile.  "But I'll find out for myself, right?"

The rooftop is quiet after the noise and rush of the party.  It smells like weed and spilled beer, just like everywhere else, but the wind blows cool air across his face and mutes the sounds coming up from the street below.  There'd been people in the stairwells, drinking and arguing and laughing.  There are people up here too, standing in tight little knots around the tarred surface, the glow of their cigarettes dim against the backdrop of Brooklyn and the far off lights of the city.  

James is by himself, tucked into a little corner that offers a good vantage of the rest of the roof.  He's staring right at Sam by the time Sam spots him, his expression hard to read, and they watch each other from across the roof for a long moment.  Then James shifts a little, reaching out with that gloved hand, wordlessly offering Sam the end of what looks like a joint.

Sam lets out a breath, and walks forward.  He settles down next to James on the little parapet he's sitting on, in the lee of a wide chimney, and accepts the joint.

"So," he says, and takes a long drag.  It's been a while, but it's smooth and sweet in his lungs and he doesn't cough.

"So," James says.  When Sam glances over James is watching him, his hands tucked in between his knees.  Their fingers brush, as Sam hands the joint back.  Somewhere out in the streets below a car alarm goes off, and is silenced.  

"Sam," James says, but smokes instead of saying anything more.  Sam lets him, gives him time to say whatever he's thinking.  James had leaned into him when he sat down and his shoulder is warm against Sam's, through the layers of their clothes.  "So Steve said he didn't know you were a therapist, when he brought you over."

"I'm not," Sam says.  "Not yet, anyway.  I'm in school."

James' jaw works, and he looks away.  "Why'd you wanna be a therapist?"

Sam waves away the joint when James offers it again.  He can feel it already, smoothing out the muscles in his shoulders, filling up his lungs, and he's had enough to drink anyway.  "Guess I'm just used to helping people," he says.  "I was a parajumper.  Not something you just walk away from, you know?  The saving people part of it, at least."

The look on James' face has shifted from wary to interested, and he laughs.  "Sam Wilson, Rescue Ranger," he says, and shakes his head.  "No shit.  Funny meeting you here, instead of - Kandahar, or whatever."  

At Sam's look, he says, "My guys, we used to work with the PJs a lot.  I don't remember meeting you but hey, maybe I just don't remember."

"Too bad it's classified," Sam says, "I could tell you for sure."

"No, it," James blows a breath out, "I was just bein' a jackass.  I was Special Forces.  I was with Task Force Black until about two years ago."

"Huh," Sam says, genuinely thrown.  "Why didn't the CIA or DoD snatch you up?  What the hell are you doing _here?_ "  He waves a hand out over the rooftop, the knots of drunk people keeping them company.  Three girls are arguing in a corner, one of them only on her feet because one of the others is supporting her.  

" _Fuck_ you, you don't know _shit_ ," she says, clear and grating over the wind, and bright anger twists hard in Sam's gut, how little he wants to be here or anywhere.  He wishes he'd brought a drink up with him, even though he doesn't really want to drink more, just wants something to do with his hands.

James draws in a breath, so deep Sam can feel him rise with it, and lets it out slowly.  He shifts away from Sam, turns to face him a little.  "It's easier if I show you," he says.

He reaches down, his fingers curling briefly around his own wrist before he tugs the glove off.  And Sam had already prepared himself for that - had figured it was less Michael Jackson fashion statement than something like what he used to treat in the field.  But what's under the glove isn't thick, ropey scar tissue - it's something silver.

James drops the glove onto his own knee, shrugging the leather jacket off one arm at a time in a graceful motion, and it's -

The conversations around him die, the dip in noise enough that Sam looks around and sees that everyone up on the roof with them has turned to look at them.  He sees bland curiosity on their faces, if they're looking outright, but most of them aren't.  Just covert little glances.

James doesn't look away from Sam's face.  

"Nice tattoos," Sam says, nodding at the ink on James' arm - the right one, the one he still has.  

Thankfully, James laughs, tucking his chin into his chest.  He twists the joint between his hands and Sam watches the articulation of each gleaming metal finger, as dexterous as the flesh ones.  "It's a lot," he says, quiet.  "I know."

"How'd it happen?" Sam asks.  His own fingers itch.  With curiosity, or maybe just sympathy.  

"It was, uh - you know.  We were in Pakistan.  Close recon op, bad intel - everything nice and deniable.  They had us - they had me for almost eight months."  

Sam's eyes flicker over James' face, cataloging the damage unspoken, the faint trace of scars he can see around James' mouth and jawline, everything he's ever heard about what happened to the guys Sam and his team couldn't go back for.  The shape some of the bodies had been recovered in, if they ever got recovered at all.  It was better to just get shot outright.  "Hence the, uh -"

"Yeah, the face thing," James agrees.  "They pulled out about half my teeth.  Busted my face up pretty bad.  I don't like my head being held."  He doesn't look at Sam, as he speaks.  There's a faint whirring noise, barely loud enough to be heard, the plating over his shoulder and bicep shifting and resettling, like they're caught in some kind of feedback loop.  That VCR thing that Sam'd heard, outside the bar.  

"How'd you get back?" Sam asks.  This time, he accepts the joint when offered.

"Coincidence," James says, sounding a little lost. He clears his throat, more steady when he continues.  "CAG hit the prison I was being held in, August 2011.  It's where we were instead of on bin Laden.  They didn't know I was there - the CIA tipped 'em off that they had a man there a couple days before.  I was the only one left from my team, and there wasn't anything they could do about the arm at that point.  They told me later I woulda died in a week or so anyway, just from sepsis."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, so quiet it feels like it gets lost in the wind.

"Yeah," James says, and shrugs his jacket back on.  "Anyway, that's what happened.  JSOC worked some benefits out for me and fixed my face and teeth, and set me up with with a Stark trial for the new arm.  It's some real uncanny valley shit sometimes but it's not enough to get me back to CAG, even if I wanted to go back.  Just a civvie with a robot arm, now."

He grins at Sam, crookedly.  "You don't actually sound too bitter," Sam says.  "I thought you guys were lifers."

James shrugs, pushing a shoulder into Sam's - the right one, the warm one.  He grinds out the last of the roach between two silver fingers.  "Not all of us got out still wanting to save people," he says.  

"You just in it for kickin' doors and killin' fools?" Sam asks, a little wry.

James shakes his head, looking down at the ground.  "Nah," he says, but doesn't elaborate.  He shifts a little in his seat, and bursts out, "Look, I'm real sorry about the other week.  I shoulda told you what the deal was, it's just - it fucking _sucks_.  You meet this super hot guy, you're into it, then you gotta tell him, 'hey so here's my fucking robot arm and tragic backstory, you still wanna fool around?' "

"Sure," Sam says.  

There's a moment of silence and then James looks back up at him, warily.

Sam lifts an eyebrow.  "What, you don't think I'm super hot anymore?"

James licks his lips, but doesn't say anything.  "No one's asking you to get married, man," Sam says, and shrugs.  "I know what that's like, is all.  To wish it was as easy as it used to be.  It can't be - but maybe it doesn't gotta be _complicated_.  We could just see how it goes."

James' eyes flicker down to his mouth, hungry and hesitant.  Now that Sam knows it's there he can hear the arm, just the faintest electric hum catching at the corner of his attention.  He tilts his face, just a little, and James eagerly takes the hint.

His lips are still wet from when he'd licked them, and piney tasting from the weed, and he kisses Sam with the same intent focus as last time.  And Sam can feel people watching them again, that idle marking, but he closes his eyes and keeps his hands to himself, and this time James doesn't pull away.

-

He goes home alone that night.  

The next morning he's up and out the door at 6 even though it had been 3 by the time he'd rounded Lou up and poured the Manhattan friends into a cab back to their own borough.  

He runs the full loop, sweating out the hangover, and walks back up Vanderbilt on shaking legs.  It's Sunday, so he sits quietly in the living room and does homework for 3 hours until Lou is up and demanding brunch.

They walk over to Washington Ave, to a place Lou likes that does bottomless brunch for $30, and he matches her mimosa for mimosa.  It's getting to be officially spring and they sit outside in the sunshine talking about James and how many red flags Sam is ignoring here, and how the last guy Lou dated had turned out to be a shady asshole.

"Maybe it's different for, uh," Lou says vaguely, her chin propped on her hand, and Sam can only shrug, because it's not like he would know yet.

They walk home with Sam's arm around Lou's shoulders and her arm around his waist.  They spend the rest of the day watching cartoons on Netflix, Lou dozing gently, and in the evening they order Seamless and wine delivery, and it's nice.  He can't even remember the last time he did nothing all day, and over dinner Lou tells him how happy she is that he came to live with her in Brooklyn, and how glad she is to reconnect, to really get to know each other as adults, and how proud she is that he's doing so much better.  It seems like a bad time to tell her that he woke up crying again, so he doesn't.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

James texts him the morning after that, while he and Lou are walking to the train.  Lou grabs Sam's arm and does two little hops of excitement before telling him sternly, "Don't you _dare_ text him back yet.  Wait a couple hours at least."

Sam rolls his eyes and lets her steal the phone out of his hand.  They read it together on the train, heads bent close.

_Hey Sam_

_Hope yr good_

_Want to come play call of duty tonight?_

Lou rolls a disbelieving eye up at Sam.  "What the fuck," she says, "kind of dumb frat boy did you pick up."

"He's not a frat boy," Sam says, a little defensively.  "He was eighteen bravo for Special Forces.  The weapons guy," he elaborates, when she looks confused.  "The guy who specializes in _sniping out of helicopters_.  They're a _little_ badass."

"You specialized in flying like a bird and shooting bad guys from the sky," Lou objects, like it's a contest.  

"Shhhh," Sam says, which only makes her giggle.  "Okay, yeah, but don't go around telling people that."

"Like Superman," Lou says, and mimes shooting her fingers like guns, "pow pow pow, I'm here to save you, motherfucker.  Caw caw."

"Exactly like that," Sam says, and steals his phone back.

He texts Tim once he's off the train and swimming north along Lex: _Update on fuckboy situation_.  The reply comes while he's grabbing lunch, on a break from classes.  

_What what what?_

_Got a date,_ Sam says, and adds, _To play some video games._

_Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ comes the answer, a few seconds later.

He laughs, and flips over to James' message.   _Can't tonight,_ he says, even though he could.   _How about tomorrow?  Like 7 or 8?_

The little typing icon appears instantly, stays for a few seconds and disappears.  Then, just as he's about to give up: _ok for tomorrow.  I'll b home all day.  7:30?_

The address follows, along with instructions: _It's one of the castle ones w the fucked up front door.  Call when yr here don't use buzzer._

_Okay,_ Sam replies, and tucks his phone back into his pocket.  He's paid, eaten and is heading back to class when his phone vibrates again.  

_Can't wait :)_  
  


-  


James' apartment, it turns out, is only a mile or so from Lou's, easy enough to walk.  

Crown Heights looks a lot like his own neighborhood: brownstones and brick pre-war buildings, the streets lined with trees in various stages of recovery from the winter.  As he moves east the sidewalks starts looking a bit more busted up, and the number of churches rise.  As soon as he crosses Nostrand Ave, the neighborhood becomes abruptly more black.  People start nodding as they pass, calling hello from their stoops and yards.

He picks up a six pack at a bodega, imperiously guarded by a tiny gray kitten sitting just under the yellow awning.  James' house is easy to find - as advertised, it's a run down looking brownstone, four stories capped off with some turrets and a sad little balcony on the top floor.  Dutifully, Sam waits outside the gate and sends a text, one handed: _I'm outside._

The back of his neck prickles.  He looks to the right to see an elderly black lady sitting in the next yard over, almost hidden behind a thick, flowering bush, giving Sam one hell of a hairy eyeball.  "Good evening," Sam says, in his best church voice, and she frowns deeply at him.

He's saved by the creak of the second floor door opening, and a shaggy brown head popping out of it.  Sam takes the out gratefully and lets himself in through the wrought iron gate.  "Man, you weren't kidding about that front door," he calls, as he closes the gate behind himself.  "Is that period original?"

"Come on up," James says, looking like he's trying to smother a grin.  He's got a tank top on, and the prosthetic gleams faintly.  He looks over Sam's shoulder, towards where his neighbor has turned creakily in her lawn chair to watch Sam jog up the front steps.  He snaps his heels together and throws her a neat salute which, hilariously, she returns.  

There's a moment in the doorway where Sam thinks James will kiss him.  The sun's slanting through the tall trees that line both sides of the block, and he's still got a smile tucked between his teeth, like Sam'd shown up with roses instead of beer.  "Hi," Sam says, into the moment.  

"Hey," James says, and steps back to let him in, tucking an escaping lock of hair back behind his ear.

Inside, the hallway is darker than Sam was expecting, and carpeted in what might have once been something floral.  To the right, there's a massive double door to what Sam assumes is the second floor apartment.  To the left is a mirror taller than Sam is, which looks about as old as the front door.  James leads him up a set of narrow, creaky stairs and then another, to the open door on the top floor.  

"Sorry it's messy," he says over his shoulder, "and small."

The apartment is both of those things.  Underneath a riot of art supplies, feather boas and books are the bones of a building that probably hasn't seen much upgrade since whenever it was built.  The ceilings are covered in crown molding and lower than Sam's expecting them to be. In between the two big rooms (doorways leading off from each to what Sam assumes are bedrooms and a bathroom) are the only evidence of closets, in the form of some crazed looking built in cabinets.  There’s a fine, sweet smelling haze of marijuana, sage and old building overlaying everything.  In the front room, wedged into a corner between some stained glass windows and a fireplace occupied by some mannequin body parts, is at last a sign of civilization: an enormous flat screen TV, Call of Duty's menu screen already up and waiting.

James takes the beer from Sam and vanishes into the other room, leaving Sam alone to either flop down on the couch or snoop around.  There's an iPhone plugged into the stereo, thumping out Nas at a comfortable volume, and Sam meanders over to take a look.

"You into hip hop?" Sam calls, bending to look at the screen.  From the kitchen, he hears James snort.  The fridge door opens and closes, and then a moment of silence.  

"I grew up in Brooklyn," he says, by way of answer.  

"And you're reppin' Queensbridge," Sam mutters, and then says out loud, "I'm more of a soul, R&B kind of guy."  He pulls up Spotify, starts tapping out letters.

"Well, help yourself," James says.  "Put on whatever you want."

"Let's expand your horizons," Sam says, and does so.  He feels James come up behind him, and straightens.  

James is looking down at the screen, head cocked.  "Is this gonna be one of those easy listening, Michael Bolton kinda -"

"Otis Redding," Sam informs him, and accepts the beer that James holds out.  "You start shit talking Otis, you and me are gonna have a problem."

James grins, lifts a hand to show no harm.  "What, not Barry White?  You not looking to set a mood?" James asks, and then he does kiss Sam, ducking his head a little to get into Sam's space.  It's awkward, and good - the slide of James' tongue against his, hot and confident - the beer bottle sweating in Sam's hand.  Otis, recommending a little tenderness.  After a moment, James pulls back, licks his lips.  "Hey, let's get our murder on."

The couch is about as comfy as it looks, and covered in a fine sheen of glitter. James laughs at the look on Sam's face, as he sets up the game.  "Yeah, just surrender now," he says.  "We're permanently sparkly here."

"Where's Steve tonight?  He got a gig?" Sam asks, and settles on in, knee pressed up against James'.

"Nah, a date," James answers, and after that there's not much talking, at least not outside the game.  They're playing co-op, and it's easy enough to fall into the rhythm of it, methodically working their way through some bombed out cityscape, James mostly leading the way he must have, back when this was both their lives.  He shifts closer and closer to Sam as they play, but almost like he's unaware of it - his attention held by the screen and their targets - like touching people is just something he likes to do.  

As the next round loads, Sam takes a break to piss in James' impossibly tiny bathroom and grab some beers from the fridge.  James waves his away.  "I don't drink," he says, which gives Sam a little pause.  

"I have _seen_ you drink," he says, and James shakes his head.

"You've seen me drink _soda_ ," he says.  "Less weird looking when you're in a bar.  I, uh - there's a lot of pills I have to take, for this."  He gestures towards the prosthetic and Sam nods.  Under the tank top the level of articulation he has makes a lot more sense, as the metal joints seem to actually be _wired into_ his shoulder, rather than just strapped over whatever's left of it.  Anti-rejections, maybe, if it hooked into his body - Sam had heard Stark Industries was doing some real next level shit with robotics after Tony Stark's captivity in Afghanistan - and god only knew what else.  There'd been a sharps container in the bathroom, and a bunch of vials Sam didn't take a close look at.  His area of expertise had never really extended to maintaining the body too long after he'd stopped it from dying.

“Anyway, I smoke a lot of weed,” James says, with a shrug.  “Less chance of, you know, accidentally dying than if you're mixing booze and pills.

"Fair enough," Sam asks, and there's a lot he wants to ask.  How much the prosthetic feels, if it's something James can take off, if it hurts him.  It's distracting, now that he's noticing it again - thinking about it again - and from the look on James' face it's obvious he can tell.

He looks down at the controller, clasped loose in his prosthetic hand, and Sam shifts forward.  Doesn't touch James, but puts the intent in the line of his body.  James glances back up, wryly.  "It's fine," he says, "I brought it up."

"Yeah, awkward," Sam says.  "Quick, kiss me so we don't have to talk about it."

James grins and crowds into Sam, the both of them laughing a little as they come together.  He can't even remember the last time he did something like this, making out on a couch like two teenagers, hot for it.  James' right hand is warm, cupped around his chin, his prosthetic arm braced along the back of the couch behind Sam's head, carefully not touching.  Anticipation coils hot and eager in Sam's stomach.

"Where can I touch you?" Sam asks, breathless, and James groans into his mouth, abruptly tense.

"S'a good question," he says, letting his head fall forward to rest against Sam's shoulder.  "I dunno - fuck, I wanna say touch me _everywhere_ , but I don't -"

"Walk me through it," Sam says, and kisses him, hard, "tell me what feels good."

Unexpectedly, James laughs.  "Okay," he says, "okay, I can -"

He leans away and tugs the tank top up over his head.  "Goddamn," Sam says, appreciatively, and his hands go up before he can think about it, stopping inches before he can touch.  James pauses, looking skeptical, and Sam can guess; he probably skips over the hard muscles, flat stomach and broad shoulders when he looks in the mirror, zeros right in on the arm and the scars - which are admittedly impressive.  They're all over his torso in vivid testimony of his service: jagged at the base of his throat, dipping down past the waistband of his pants, a spray of them across his stomach like - well, probably exactly like a shrapnel hit.  

"Can I?" Sam asks, and flexes his hands.

James drops the shirt off the side of the couch and throws a leg over Sam's hips, settling down onto his lap.  "Take yours off," he orders, and between them they get Sam's shirt off too, and then they're up against it: warm skin, and James' weight in his lap, his ass nestled right up against Sam's cock.  That ache in Sam's whole body, waiting and wanting it.  

There's a moment where James only looks, tracing over Sam's scars with his eyes - his own shrapnel constellation, across his right shoulder.  The thick pucker on his left bicep.  The sliver across his collarbone that's the closest he ever came to dying, a decade before he ever went to war.

James bends to kiss him, his hair falling all over Sam's face, and tugs one of Sam's hands onto his hip - and then, hesitantly, the other one.  "Touch me there," he breathes, into Sam's mouth.  "On my hips.  Watch the scar next to my belly button, it pulls like a motherfucker."

So he does - skims both palms over solidity of James' waist.  Draws his hands up the small of James' back, fingertips finding more scars along the way.  Digs his thumbs into the sharp cut of James' hips, down towards his waistband and the bit of hair just above it.  

James takes a deep, ragged breath, and another.  He pushes into Sam's hands like a cat, the air between them hot and humid.  Sam moving too, just a little, hips pushing up against James' ass, that heady weight against his cock.  Otis on the stereo again, soft and sexy, the music on the game's hold screen an irrelevant faint noise.

"You're fuckin gorgeous," James tells him, and skims his own fingers down Sam's chest as he says, "here, like this - play with my nipples. I been thinking about this all week, you got no idea."

"Good stuff?" Sam asks, and tugs James a little closer, draws his tongue over one flat nipple and then the other, testing.  He feels James gasp against him, and a whirring next to his ear as the plates of the prosthetic lift and settle.  

"Yeah, yeah, good stuff," James pants, so Sam does it again, biting a little this time, rubbing at the other one with the pad of his thumb.  Marveling a little, inside his head, what a rise he's getting out of this.  Some of the girls Sam's fucked didn't like their tits played with at all and Sam's kinda neutral to it himself, but James is shivering up against him like Sam's got a thumb on his wet clit, that gentle teasing rub to get him real revved up.  He's biting at Sam's throat, and still talking, the words coming out easier now.

"Sam, you gotta, _please_ touch my dick, please," James says, and Sam almost laughs, as hot as it all sounds coming out of James' mouth.  James _does_ laugh, wrecked and throaty, face happy and relaxed, telling Sam, "Come on, get my dick out, touch me."

"Who could say no to that," Sam says, and rubs his palm over James' cock, rubs him through the thin workout pants he's got on, and then taps two fingers on James' hips to get him standing, get him wiggled out of his clothes, and then he's got both hands braced on James' thighs, and there's a big, hard cock right in front of his face, and _this is really happening_.  

James moves to straddle him again, and Sam's hands on his thighs hold him fast.   _Fuck_ , he can _smell_ James, the heat of him, so fucking different than the smell of a girl.  

"Can I?" Sam asks, and James groans, says, "yes, _please_ yes, I'm clean, I'm clean."

He's thinking a little about the first time he ever went down on a girl.  How terrified he'd been of fucking it up - that she wouldn't like it - that he wouldn't know what to do.  He's had girls tell him how easy it is, sucking dick - nothing too complicated about it, just get it down your throat and make it wet and that was enough, for most guys.  He's thinking about what he likes, what feels good to him, how you go about doing that to someone else's body.  

So he opens his mouth, takes the head in, right on his tongue.  He's expecting that bitter pre-come taste but not the taste of clean, hopeful skin underneath, the warm, earthy smell of James' body.  It's easier to breathe than he thought it'd be, right up until he's got most of it down his throat and he gags, just a little, just at the surprise of it. James' hands are on his shoulders, one of them lifting up to stroke his cheek and jaw, like maybe he's been warned not to stick his hands in black folk's hair without asking, or like he thinks Sam won't like his head being grabbed either.

He likes what he sees, when he glances up to see James' head tilted back, mouth open, eyes closed - but fuck he likes it just _because_ , it feels _good_ and it's _hot_ and he can't even believe he's really _doing this_.

"I'm gonna come," James stutters, and that's, yeah, maybe that's enough for the first time, he's not even sure of the etiquette here but James doesn't seem to mind when he backs off, finishes him with a wet fist around his cock, fingers cupped gently around the head when James comes so it doesn't get all over his face or something.  

James is back in his lap a second later, kissing him fiercely, his fingers splayed around Sam's face like he wants to touch.  His wet cock, still mostly hard, rubs up against Sam's bare stomach and that's it, _fuck_ , he wants to come.

"Hang on a sec," he manages, and leans over enough to grab a sock off the floor, wipe his hand off, and then he's back and letting James kiss him again, all over his face and neck, and nodding as hard as he can when James says, "I wanna suck your dick, Sam, _please_."

He doesn't even wait to get Sam's pants all the way off, just tugs his cock free and settles down between Sam's knees, greedily swallowing him down.  Sam grabs blindly at the back of the couch and holds on, hips lifting right off up off the cushion and -

_Jesus fucking Christ -_

_Fucking **fuck** -_

He doesn't even feel too bad about it when he comes in about a minute flat, too turned on to wanna draw it out, and who fucking ever cared about making it last for someone blowing you anyway, and it feels _amazing_.  James crawls back up on top of him and they tip over onto the couch together, and they're both breathless and laughing a little bit and Sam kisses him over and over and over.

It's a while before they calm down.  James presses his face against Sam's chest, tucked up close under Sam's arm, his prosthetic hand cool and a little awkward on Sam's stomach, like he's trying to make it not weird.  "Hey," Sam says, and when James looks up Sam holds a hand up, palm out, waiting.  He looks as relieved and overwhelmed and happy as Sam feels, so there's only a little hesitation before he rolls his eyes and gives Sam a hi five.  


-  


It's a Tuesday morning when he gets a text from an unknown number:

_Hi Sam!  You wanna grab lunch this week?  Maybe today?_

_I work in midtown, can go any time b4 2_

_Lmk what works for you!_

As he's staring at his phone, baffled, another text comes through: _It's Steve btw!  James' friend.  Sorry should have lead w that_

The address Steve sends him to is a cafe, awkwardly wedged under the pedestrian roadway that leads up Park Ave and into Grand Central Station.  Sam's seen it in movies, of course, but outside the confines of film it seems like an almost unimaginable place to actually want to sit down and eat lunch.  There's construction on all sides, and the road itself is chaotic with yellow cabs and two distinct classes of people: bewildered tourists dragging suitcases, and hard faced New Yorkers, weaving rapidly between suitcases with uniform expressions of distilled rage.

Steve is occupying one of the wrought iron tables stuffed into the little square, bent placidly over a tablet like there's not a flock of businessmen screaming into their phones inches away from him.

"Is this one of those tourist things?" Sam asks, dropping into the seat opposite.  "Like, one of those classic New York things I gotta do?"

Steve squints at him through a thick pair of glasses. It's the first time Sam's seen him in people clothes instead of a burlesque costume; he's wearing suspenders and a striped button up, fitted meticulously to his narrow frame.  Sam feels improbably charmed by the sight of him.  "Nah, I was just dyin for something other than Pret a Manger," he says.  "My day job's a block over and it's slim pickings for lunch.  But the food's real good here, and sometimes you get to see Iron Man flying around Stark Tower, which is pretty cool."

The food's more or less what Sam's expecting: your basic diner food, but twice as expensive.  The waitress wanders over after a few minutes to take their order, and Sam waits until she's gone to settle on in and say, "All right, let's hear it."

Steve frowns, head tilted.  "Hear what?"

"Is this the overprotective best friend speech?" Sam asks.  "Where you tell me if I break his heart, you'll break my legs?"

Steve laughs, loud enough that some of the businessmen falter a bit and glance over.  "You watch a lot of movies, Sam?"

Sam shrugs.  "Just didn't know why else you'd be texting me, is all."

Steve shrugs, and leans over for a sip of his drink.  "Well, I am sussing you out.  That's not why, though.  If you need your legs broken, Buck can do it himself.”  Steve leans in, looking conspiratorial.  “I never asked but I'm pretty sure he can kill someone with a paper clip."

"Yeah, that's not far off," Sam agrees, even if it's probably true of him too.

"But if you stick around we're gonna be friends sooner or later," Steve says, and leans back in his seat.  "I thought we could get a jump on it.  You seem nice and everything, but all I know about you so far is that you're into Captain America and you got a great dick."

Sam chokes on his soda, bad enough that a little goes up his nose.  Steve reaches over and thumps him on the back a couple times, ineffectually.  "Jesus Christ," Sam says, and coughs hard.  "I mighta preferred the best friend speech."

"Ahhh, sorry," Steve says, and almost looks like he means it.  "I was just joking.  He didn't tell me anything about your dick, don't worry."

"It'd be nice things, if he did," Sam tells him, very seriously, and Steve laughs again.  

"I hope so," he huffs, "that's my best friend you're talking about, if he's having terrible sex then maybe I will have to break your legs."

"That is true friendship," Sam says, "also a little terrifying."

"Well, don't do the crime," Steve says, eyes wide and innocent over the rim of his soda.  "We all walk outta here."

They're interrupted by the waitress, who brings their plates and a nice smile for each of them, like working tables at the most stressful corner in Manhattan is no big deal.  "Hey, would you guys mind if I drop your check now?" she asks.  "There's no rush on the table, just that my shift ends real soon.  Hope you don't mind."

"Course not," Steve says.  She's back with their cards barely a minute later, and an even bigger smile.

"Really appreciate it, guys," she says.

And Sam doesn't mean to look, not really - he glances over to Steve's bill to see how much he's leaving for tip, and in a cascade of obliviousness he'll tell Lou about later on, cringing, laughs when he sees the name on Steve's card.

"You steal your sister's credit card or something?" he asks.

Steve flicks his gaze up over his glasses, abruptly tense all over.  "No," he says, low.  "It's my card."

"Oh, come on, quit playing," Sam says, even as understanding starts to slowly trickle through.  "Really?  But I've seen you naked, like, a dozen times."

"No, you fucking haven't," Steve says, coldly furious.  

_Fuck_ , Sam thinks, and then for good measure, _shit_.  "You're right," he says slowly, tries to make it sound like an apology rather than just a statement of fact.  "I haven't."

Silence settles over the table, taut and awkward.  A new waitress picks up their signed checks and vanishes with them.  Sam risks a glance up, and sees Steve looking off into middle distance, towards the swarm of people flowing in and out of Grand Central.  His chin is jutted out, jaw working a little - bracing himself, looks like.

"I'm sorry, man," Sam says, "I really had no idea."

"I never know whether I should say _thanks_ ," Steve wonders, acidly.  "Is the ultimate goal _passing?_  I thought I was just trying to look like myself."

"I don't know," Sam admits.  "I don't think that's something I get an opinion on."

Steve's face softens.  Sam lets the moment stretch, digs into his lunch instead of pressing the point.  The food's not bad, he'll give Steve that, although it's hard to taste over the stink of asphalt and commuter angst.  "You can ask," Steve says, quiet like, bent over his own meal.  

"Nope," Sam asks, and takes a big bite of his sandwich.  "If you wanna tell me about it, sure. But I'm done sticking my foot in my mouth today."

"You ever know a trans person before?" Steve asks.  

Sam shakes his head.  "Don't think so.  I saw the first season of Orange is the New Black.  That's mostly it."

Steve makes a little face.  "It's the first thing people think about when you tell 'em: what your junk looks like," he says.  "I fuckin' _hate it._  And people get mad at _me_ , for not wanting to talk about surgeries and shit.  Like I give up the right to privacy just for fuckin existing.   _Especially_ when you get paid to take your clothes off.  I know you didn't mean anything by it, it just -"

"It's my fault," Sam says quickly.  "I was out of line."

Steve is silent for a long moment, his brow furrowed.  Even now that Sam knows it still doesn't compute.  Maybe if he was _really_ thinking about it, Steve's voice has an oddish quality to it that Sam had chalked up to the hearing aid, and maybe his face is a little round looking, but it's like adding two and two and coming up with five.

"I guess it makes _Steve Rogers_ make a little more sense," Sam says, thoughtfully.  "Thought it was pushing it a little: James Barnes and Steve Rogers, best friends since childhood."

Steve rolls his eyes.  "Yeah, okay.  But half the guys in Bucky's family are named James, it's a _thing_.  And Rogers was a hometown hero here, it's not like it's - I mean, there's a community garden two blocks over from my apartment named after Steve Rogers.  There's murals all over Brooklyn of both of them.  Half my friends growing up had like, some kind of Captain America shrine in their houses.  My ma always - "

He stops, scowling into his bowl of pasta.  

"You don't owe me an explanation, man," Sam says.  "Like you said, we're just getting to know each other."

He could say more.  He's thinking more.  It's been a couple weeks and he's seen James a handful of times, always at the apartment when Steve is out.  They haven't had sex yet but it's there, the possibility of it, thick in the air.  James texts him to say goodnight, and to say good morning, even if they don't have plans, and it's - it's strange, not to have to be the one pursuing.  It's nice.  It feels good.  They haven't talked at all about where this is going, and Sam's not too worried about it, but - he thinks maybe he might want to stick around, if the option's there.  

He'll need Steve to like him, that's for damn sure - Sam doesn't imagine he'd be too welcome otherwise.  But he _wants_ Steve to like him, too.  

"Next time I go down to see my family, I'll see if I can bring some of the Cap reels back," he offers.  "They're on 40 mil but you guys have a projector, right?"

It does the trick. Steve still looks a little mulish, like he knows what Sam's trying to do - but his nerd glee is winning out.  "Your grandpa won't mind?" he asks, after a moment of indecision.

Sam takes a breath, and lets it out.  "He died about six months ago," he says, and it comes out pretty evenly.  "So no, he's not gonna mind."

"Oh," Steve says.  "I'm sorry."  Sam shrugs, but Steve's peering up at him, head cocked like a bird.  "Was that when you were still overseas?"

Sam nods.  "We were hoping he'd last until I was back stateside," he says.  "But it didn't work out that way."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, and Sam nods again, accepting it.  

"My ma, she died of cancer a few years back," Steve says, hesitantly.  "She was an EMT.  She was one of the first responders when the Towers went down.  A lot of people got sick after, from all the shit that was in the air, and she - she just couldn't shake it.  I took a leave from work to care for her and it was really tough.  Bucky was over in Afghanistan or somewhere at the time, so I was pretty much alone, and real scared.  We started watching all this Cap stuff on TV - it's always Cap or aliens on the History Channel, you know?  She'd called me Stevie since I was a little kid.  I'd come home all banged up and ready to take on the world and she'd say, 'who do you think you are, huh?  Steve Rogers?' "

Steve smiles down onto his plate.  His fingers are long and bony, balanced haphazardly on either side of his meal.  He doesn't look like he's expecting a response so Sam doesn't offer one, just sits still and listens.  "I downloaded some of the reels online.  We musta watched 'em a hundred times, the last few weeks of her life.  They're so _dumb_ , but you still cheer at the end, even though obviously Cap was gonna win.  Watching 'em, it helped."

Sam nods.  "Gives you something to hold on to," he says.  "Something to believe in."

Steve's face lights up.  "Yeah," he says.

"I did the same thing when I first got back," Sam says, and it's funny to think of it now, only a few months later - how jumpy he'd been the first few weeks, raging and regretting every choice he'd made in his life.  "Couldn't sleep, so I'd stay up and watch the History Channel.  It, uh - it made me feel closer to my grandpa.  We were real tight.  He'd served in the Army as a parachuter during World War II, so I was following in his footsteps when I enlisted.  He told me he tried to volunteer to get into Cap's unit, when he heard they were letting black soldiers in.  They were only taking guys already in Europe at that point, but I guess it gave him and the other guys something to hope for - being counted as good as anyone else."

"That's really cool," Steve says, and shakes his head.  "That's the shit he should be remembered for, not some - jingoist bullshit.  It drives me nuts to see his shield waved around at these fucking Tea Party rallies, like they own him or something.  He's _ours_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Barnes family tree in this story is the same one as all of my pre-war stories. It's not necessary to read them first, just to know that the Barnes family circa WW2 was a middle class, interfaith family living in what's now Crown Heights, Brooklyn. (If you do want to read them, [When I Put Away Childish Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2315117) is a good place to start.)

 

"I am _so_ excited," Jim tells him, for the fourth time.  "Tim is _so mad_ , you have no idea.  He is so _pissed_ that I get to meet Fuckboy before he does."

"I think we're at the point where we can use his actual name," Sam says, tugging off his shoes and shoving them to the back of the cubby.  

"Not even your _sister_ has met Fuckboy," Jim says, oblivious.  "I am _so excited_."

"My sister didn't want to go to a yoga class," Sam says, and gives Jim a hand up from where he's crouched on the floor, crushed up against the cubbies.  

The yoga studio is the kind of space Sam imagines you get used to, living in New York City: impossibly small, up three flights of narrow stairs behind a bodega and past a nail salon.  The line for the class had spanned two of these flights, little clumps of people changing blithely out of their office clothes and into yoga pants like they weren't standing in a dank stairwell.  The changing room itself, once they're actually in the studio, is a narrow set of cubbies just inside the open door, set about three feet apart and lined with flyers for an additional studio on the 6th floor.  No one else seems concerned by the whole set up, even Jim, so Sam decides he won't be either.  They hand over their money for the class, and a yoga mat for Sam, and squeeze into the rapidly filling studio.

James is nowhere to be seen.  There's an empty platform up front where Sam assumes the teacher stands.  The studio is lined with windows and candles, overlooking the bright lights of midtown.  There's a window open but the room is warm, and sweet with incense.  There are two spots open about halfway back, so they dump their mats and sit, a little awkwardly.  

It's the first time he's ever hung out with Jim, Tim's husband, just the two of them, but if Jim's feeling the weirdness he's not showing it.  He's in his late 20s, does something in the art world, and is Korean, maybe, or Japanese; Sam's never asked. They sit and stretch and chat, shuffling their mats a little closer as the room fills up.  

"Is that him?" Jim asks, periodically, practically bouncing.  "No?  How about him?" Sam can't quite figure if he's doing it just to make Sam laugh or if he actually _is_ that excited.  He's not the sort of guy Sam would've been friends with, back in the day.  Tim's crew is cool, but they all know it's his first time batting for the other team, and there's been a certain amount of paternalistic advice about it.  

He's not sure what makes him turn - a displacement of air, or just the feel of a body he knows.  He glances up, and James is grinning down at him.

"Hey, you made it," he says, and gives a soft nudge with his knee to Sam's shoulder blade before stepping around and folding himself down in a delicate crouch between their mats.

"You must be Jim," he says, offering a hand.

"You must be James," Jim replies, and shakes, and if James watches his eyes dart down to the uncovered prosthetic, neither of them mention it.

"Ever do hot yoga before?" James asks.  The question is split between the two of them, his tone professional even though his eyes are still mostly on Sam.  Jim has; Sam has not.  Sam has never done yoga before.  James is unconcerned: "You'll be fine, it's not exactly the pararescue qualifier.  Just drink water when you need it, take a rest if you need that.  I'll grab you a towel to lay over your mat."

He drops the towel off but doesn't linger, stepping nimbly through the maze of yoga mats, packed about as tight as the 6 train during rush hour, to close the studio window and take his spot up on the teacher's platform.

"So that's Fuckboy," Jim says faintly, after a moment, and reaches over without looking and pinches the top of Sam's thigh.  "Well, that is just goddamn unfair."

"Life is good, my man," Sam says, and they watch in silence as James hinges neatly at the waist, pivots and comes back up with one leg curled behind himself, his back arched as gracefully as a dancer.  His whole body is one long, lithe line.  Jim makes an anguished noise.

"Unfair," he repeats.  "Your first time out of the gate and you snag some GQ yoga motherfucker.  If I wasn't so in love with my husband I would pay actual money to be the filling in that sandwich."

The heat kicks on behind them, and people start quieting down.  The room's mostly silent by the time James tells them to get into child's pose, which is - Sam follows along out of the corner of his eye - lying prostrate, forehead against the floor.  It feels silly, at first - the bony part of his feet press awkwardly together, and all that they're supposed to do, apparently, is breathe.

"Feel that rib cage swing open as you inhale.  Hold it - now let it out slow.  When you think you're all outta air, I want to go keep going, keep pushing.  Good, people - you sound great.  Do that a few more times."

Music starts to play, a little belatedly.  It's hot enough now that Sam can feel a bit of sweat on his chest, his forehead where it's pressing against the mat.  James' voice is barely louder than the music, slow and hypnotic.

"Now I am breathing in," James says, and Sam obeys, breathes, "now I am breathing out."

The room is still but for the exhalation of every person in it, the soft whisper of the heater.  

"What we're looking for is connecting movement to breath," James tells them.  "You mighta just spent eight hours under attack in midtown, but right now I want you to come back into your body.  Be one hundred percent aware of what it's doing, what it needs.  It's not about how good you look, or how long you can hold that chair pose.  It's about reconnecting with yourself, and your breath is how you're gonna get there.  That's the foundation of your practice today."

James' voice rolls smoothly over the class, narrating the shift of movement as he leads them up through rag doll, sun salute, down dog, peaceful warrior.  It's harder than Sam was expecting - James was right, it doesn't exactly compare to his qualifiers, but it's hot enough enough that he can't really focus on anything but the push of air in and out of his lungs, the shake of his muscles as he moves them into unfamiliar arrangements.

The only illumination in the studio is what's coming through the windows.  James is silhouetted against them, moving through the flow himself as a guide to the class, or drifting silently through the room to help reposition a student.  They breathe in unison.  They move in unison.  The directions are confusing - open up the heart, square hips that feel pointed in opposite directions - but the rhythm of it he _gets_.  It was one of the first things they ever taught his team, after all - how to fly in tandem.

He feels - _quiet_ by the time James guides them onto the mat, one leg folded up underneath his pelvis, the other stretched out long behind him.  He hasn't thought about Jim or the other students in what feels like hours.  He's covered in sweat and his lungs feel drowsy and wet as he folds his hands as a pillow for his forehead and tries to relax into the stretch.

There's a footstep next to him, and a quiet voice.  "Is it alright if I touch you?"  

Sam nods, fuzzy and trusting.  Two hands bracket his hips, and _push_.  

Even though he knew it was coming, he startles - by the weight of it, by the way his whole body wakes up all at once.  James must be levering most of his weight to reposition him, holding himself carefully above Sam, so no parts of their bodies are actually touching except James' hands on his hips.  Something - somewhere along the dimly protesting line of muscle running along his thigh, his ass, his hip - abruptly _gives_ , relief and sudden and abrupt as a fall.  The weight lifts - he can feel James settle back onto his own feet - and then the soft trace of his fingertips on the back of Sam's neck before he steps away.

Sam sets his teeth into his wrist, strangling the groan until it's nothing but a hiss, his heart hammering wildly against his chest.  

By the time they're guided flat on their back, feet pointed towards the edge of the mat, hands loose at their sides, "Savasana, guys, and you've earned it," he feels unmoored entirely.  The studio is dark, and quiet after James cuts the music.

"So normally this is the part of class where we read from a selected poem and ring the singing bowl," he says, into the still room.  "Those of you who are my regulars will know I'm not much for poetry, so what I do instead is share a little bit about myself and why I'm a teacher here.

"You mighta thought to yourself, how'd this big burly guy with a buncha tattoos get so damn good at yoga?  Well, I lost an arm.  You mighta noticed.  When you lose an arm, you get a lot of time to yourself.  To rest and recover, which actually means to sit and think about what happened to you and what the rest of your life's gonna look like.  Then, if you're lucky enough that someone gives you a weird robot arm, you get even _more_ time, to figure out how to use it without ripping doors off their hinges like Superman."

There's a rusty ripple of laughter across the class.  Sam cracks an eye open and finds James, sitting up on the teacher's platform with his elbows braced on his knees, backlit by the city lights.

"There was a long time where I looked in the mirror and I didn't recognize the guy who looked back.  All these hours I had to fill up, just me and this _guy_ , this _stranger_."  James shakes his head.  "Suddenly my whole _life_ was about this guy and getting to know him.  My physical therapist suggested yoga, to get adjusted to my 'new normal' - I'd tried it before the Army, sure, but it seemed - _stupid_ , to be honest.  A buncha hippie dippie stretching was supposed to make me feel better?"

James picks up the silver bowl, sitting on the window ledge, taps it thoughtfully.  His metal fingers make a soft, musical sound.  "It did," he says, like he's still surprised by it.  "It made me feel like I was still in here.  I got to understand that I _was_ that guy in the mirror, I'd just been too scared to accept it.  It's why I'm standing in front of you today, telling you my story.  Yoga is a reason to remind yourself that you're here and you're _alive_.  That this is the body that belongs to you.  It's the only thing that ever really does."

The sound of the singing bowl builds and builds, like wet fingers around the rim of a wineglass, lingering in Sam's ears even after it fades away.  The music turns back on, and slowly people start to shift, to sit up and collect their things.  Jim stays quiet on his mat so Sam does too, even if he's vibrating with the effort of it.  

James is sitting at the back of the room, chatting softly with people as they filter out of the narrow space.   He catches Sam's eye and his expression shifts, caught by whatever he sees in Sam's face.  "I'm done after this," he says, "wait for me?"

Sam nods, not quite trusting himself to speak.  He and Jim put their shoes and socks on in the stairwell, letting the next class by.  "We'll see you on Tuesday at Pieces, yeah?" Jim asks.  "Bring Fuckboy, we'll be nice."

"I'll ask him," Sam promises, and Jim gives him a quick, one armed hug before vanishing down the stairs.  

Sam sits, pressed into the corner at the top of the steps, and braces elbows against his knees, presses his forehead against his clasped hands.  

The stairwell empties.  He can hear street noises from below, faint and echoed. A car horn.  The sound of traffic.  Someone speaking in a language he doesn't understand.  Then, a shift in the air, and the careful touch of wam metal fingers around the shell of his ear.  "Come upstairs," James says, deliberate.  "My bag's in the other studio."

Sam gets to his feet, follows him up two more flights.  Waits for James to unlock the door to the other studio.  Tells him, "I'm gonna throw you up against this wall right here if you don't get that goddamn door open."

James' shoulders hitch up and then relax completely, his head nodding loose on his neck.  

They barely get the door shut behind them.  The first surface they hit is another wall of cubbies, James steering him blindly through the dark studio until they hit something solid and flat, then they're making out, sloppy and frantic in the dark.   There's a cold wall against Sam's shoulders and his hands slip along the hot skin of James' back, both of them sweaty and panting.

"Gonna touch your ass," Sam gasps, and waits for James to nod before grabbing two handfuls and dragging him closer, trying to get their cocks lined up through their shorts, pushing together hard enough it almost hurts.  Christ, he _wants_ \- he wants _everything_ , what are they even doing right now, James _works here_ , maybe Sam should pump the brakes but it's not slowing James down any -

James' metal palm slaps hard against the wall, loud enough that Sam jumps a little.  James doesn't seem to notice; he's got his face buried in Sam's shoulder, eager little thrusts of his hips like he's ready to get off that way, his other hand fisted in the back of Sam's tank top.  "I want you to fuck me so bad, Sam," he groans, muffled, mouthing at Sam's neck.  "If we were at my place I'd ride your dick so fucking hard."  

Sam's hands dig into James' ass reflexively, spreading him like he could get inside that way.  "You got a filthy mouth," Sam tells him, appreciatively.  

"I'd fuck you right here if we had condoms," James mutters, the drag of his cock up against Sam's almost enough to override that sensible voice inside his head, say it was okay because they were both clean, right?  They'd _talked_ about it, it was no big deal.

Then his top brain snaps back awake and reminds him it _isn't_ a big deal.  "I have condoms," Sam manages.  He'd bought condoms a week ago, nice ones at the pretty little sex shop around the corner from Tim's shop on Bergen, and they'd slipped a couple sachets of lube into the bag as a gift.  He'd stuck them in his school bag in a fit of nervous anticipation that he hasn't really felt since high school, unsure of the etiquette and unwilling to ask.  It had seemed polite, well prepared, and now well fucking planned.

James bites down hard on his neck, comes back up grinning.  "You're fucking _amazing_ ," he says, punctuating it by fast, open mouthed kisses to Sam's face, and something hot and shameful flashes through Sam's stomach.  It's still never come up between them, what Sam has or hasn't done, and he should, maybe - but not in the heat of the moment -

They have to separate long enough for him to snag everything from his school bag.  When he gets to his feet, James has kicked off his shorts and tank top, standing naked except for his beat up sandals.  He's sagged back against the wall and is playing loosely with his dick, just two fingers and the thumb wrapped under the head, his prosthetic hand toying with his own nipples.  Watching Sam with open hunger, just barely readable by the city lights through the windows, cutting wide stripes across his body.  

"I'm gonna turn you around," Sam tells him, stripping off his own shirt, "I'm gonna fuck you against that wall.  I'm not gonna hold you down or try and pin you in place.  You start to feel weird, you tell me and I'll stop."

"Okay," James says, low, and turns to face the wall, bracing his elbows against the wall.  Sam slips the condom into his pocket, tears open the little packet of lube, gets his fingers nice and slick.  

"More," James says, almost as soon as Sam's got the first finger inside him, and Sam kisses his spine, rubs his naked dick over the round, sweet curve of James' ass.  He'd been marveling at the novelty of James' balls, how he could see them swinging down between James' legs as he arches his back.  He can feel James' muscles clenching around his finger, the inside of him impossibly heated and soft to the touch.  

"You want more?" he asks, and pushes in the second fingertip, just the tips now, slow and careful, and James makes a frustrated sound.  

"Not gonna break," he pants.  "Come on, I do this all the time."

Sam stops short.  "You -" he says, but he's not sure how to finish the sentence, surprised by the casual admission and by the twinge in his heart at hearing it.  They've never talked about being exclusive but he hasn't, himself, there hasn't been anyone else and he'd thought -

But James is shaking his head, thumping the back of his skull against Sam's collarbone, twisting enough to put his mouth hot and urgent against Sam's ear.  "I jerk off a lot," he says, "I like to finger myself when I do it.  I got toys I like to put up my ass.  I like to get _fucked_ , Sam.  I want you to fuck me, I want your dick in me, fucking _give it to me_."

"Fucking _Christ_ ," Sam gasps, and grabs at the base of his dick.  He doesn't waste too much more time getting James ready; the next time he says _more_ Sam believes him and tears open the condom packet, rolling it on and getting that slick too.  He gives James one last kiss on the ridges of his spine, spreading his ass with one hand and the other steadying his cock as he pushes in.  

James is breathing hard, quick little exhales between his teeth.  It's dead silent around them, the air cool and sweet, turning humid as they sweat.  " _Sam_ , fuck," James whispers, throat stretched long and wide, and Sam would give anything to pull his head back and kiss him while they fuck.  But he keeps one arm braced on the wall next to James', the other wrapped around James' chest, loose enough that it's barely more than fingertips grazing over his ribs.  Letting James have control, even up against the wall.

"Feel good?  Still with me?" Sam asks, panting, because he wants to know, _god_ he hopes it's good, it feels amazing for him.  He's moving smooth and deep now, wonders how you tell if you're hitting a guy's prostate, wondering how long he'll be able to last.  

"S'good, so good," James says, mumbles it into his wrist.  He's moving his hips, arching up to get Sam deeper and harder, so Sam obeys, gives James more of his weight, going faster, his whole body boiling over as he gets closer and closer to orgasm.  He should probably - he thinks, muzzily - give a reach around, he should probably -

James' fingers tangle in with Sam's, and he comes almost untouched with a strangled yelp, trying to muffle it in the curve of his other arm.  Sam's not quite there yet until suddenly he is, the last thing he thinks some flash of _don't fucking grab at him_ before he's curling up on his toes and coming as hard as he ever has in his life.

It's the first thing he thinks of, when he comes back to himself a little, but his arm is still loose around James' chest, his legs sturdy underneath himself.  It's only when he strokes his thumb over James' wrist, their hands still clasped together over James' heart, that he realizes it's the prosthetic one he's holding.  It's body warm, vibrating quietly in the dark studio, an even counterpoint to the steady heartbeat he can feel against the underside of his wrist.    


-  


The scrape of an old window being pushed up.  The click of a lighter.  The vague sounds of the street below: bird song, the susurrus of cars.  Somewhere, someone's playing Aretha Franklin.  

Exhale.  The green, familiar smell of marijuana.  He's lying in a bed.  He's covered with the warm, happy weight of a blanket.  

He's aware, vaguely, of movement in the room.  Puttering.  Getting dressed.  The sound of hair being brushed.  Of paper burning, more smoke.  "Mm," Sam says, or tries to.  Why be awake, anyway?  No good reason for it.  Awake never did fuck all for him.

A weight settles near him, warm and solid.  He makes a happy sound and curls towards it, without opening his eyes.  "Keep sleepin," someone tells him.  

_James!_ he thinks, half a second later, thrilled.  

"Mmm," he says to James, and receives the warm brush of lips against his forehead in return.   _Awesome_.  Life is _good_.

"I gotta go," James says.  His hand drapes over Sam's neck, thumb stroking soft over his skin.  All the best feelings in the world concentrate in that little stripe of touch.  "Gotta go to therapy."

The bad taste of the word wakes Sam up a little bit.  "Y'okay?" he manages.  "C'n ... go with."

James laughs.  Another kiss to Sam's forehead, and god bless all the saints in heaven, to his upturned mouth.  "I'm all right," James says.

"Moral support," Sam says stubbornly, and frowns, eyes still closed.  Sounds like he's got marbles in his mouth.  Sounds like he's still asleep.  But therapy - important.  He can.  Wake up.

Another kiss to his mouth, this one as soft as clear, high air, and another, lingering.  "You're wonderful," James says, barely more than a whisper.  "I don't deserve someone like you."

That's shit, and Sam would tell him so, but there are hands stroking over his face again, and a little louder James says, "go back to sleep.  The front door'll lock behind you.  Stay as long as you want.  Sleep, Sam."  It sounds like an order, so he does.

He wakes up an uncertain amount of time later, naked and alone.  He can't quite stop himself from groaning a little as he shifts - sore all over, from sleep or sex or god knows what else.  He's not even sure what time it is, a stone impossibility.  He feels like he slept a hundred years.  He must have slept the whole night through.  He can't even remember if he had a nightmare.

He showers groggily.  The bathtub seems about three quarters the size Sam's used to, and it's stocked with cruelty free paraben free vegan organic shit, which he uses with all the bland enthusiasm as he did the shit supplies they got in the Air Force.  He wanders around the apartment a little afterwards, checks what he's always assumed is Steve's bedroom - holy crap it's small, barely larger than the twin bed crammed in there, no windows but a skylight, no decoration other than three meticulously framed vintage Cap posters.   _He'll Never Quit!_ says the middle one, _And Neither Shall We!_

James' room is similarly bare: just the wide, creaky IKEA bed and an ancient wooden desk.  There's a cracked mason jar on the ledge that Sam picks up and turns over in his hands before he realizes what's inside.  He's alone in the apartment, but he looks over his shoulder anyway before he empties the jar into his palm and reads the history of James' service in ribbons and medals.  He doesn't know all of them, the Army specific ones, but some of them overlap with his own collection, stuffed into a little box that lives in a duffle bag under his bed.

He sighs, tips them back into the jar.  The medals clink faintly against the glass.  Up against the window the ribbons blur together into a mosaic of color, meaningless and pretty in the sunlight.  

He borrows a pair of shorts from the chest of drawers out in the living room and pulls on the rest of his clothes.  He's still half asleep, trying to remember if there was a coffee shop anywhere between here and Sam's own apartment, so it's not until the front door's swinging shut behind him that he thinks to pat his pockets and finds wallet present but cell phone missing.

Sam tips his head back to the sky, allows himself the faintest groan.  Turns and rattles the door even though he knows it's not gonna do shit.  Looks down the steps and finds two sets of eyes - one blue, one brown - staring up at him in expectant silence.  

"Can I help you?" says the white woman sitting on his side of the yard, apparently passing the time of day with the scary neighbor lady on the other side of the hedge.

"Uh," Sam says, but before he can say anything else her eyes widen and she breaks into a broad smile that is instantly, terrifyingly familiar.

"Hey, you must be Sam!" she says.  "It's good to meet you finally, I've heard so much about you."

Sam heads down the steps, holds out a hand.  "You must be James' mom," he says wryly.  "Good to meet you, ma'am."

She laughs, takes a last drag from her cigarette and stubs it out into a jar.  She's got a nice handshake just on the scary side of firm, and is covered in tattoos from wrists to shoulders.  She sounds just as Brooklyn born and bred as her son.  "It's Hannah.  Marie, this is Sam, Jim's boyfriend," she says to the neighbor lady, which gives Sam a bit of a jolt: are he and James dating, is that official?  Marie doesn't deign to shake hands, but gives Sam a tight lipped expression he knows from his own grandmother, the kind that says you ain't any better than you oughta be.

Hannah lets him back into the house, leading the way back up the stairs like he doesn't know where he's going.  She doesn't follow him into James' room, thank god, which smells like sex and reefer, just stands out in the living room clucking sadly.  "They've broken four vacuums up here, the amount of glitter Steve brings home," she tells Sam when he comes back out.  "You wanna cup of coffee, before you go?  You look pretty worn out."

_Nope_ , Sam thinks, but obviously what comes out of his mouth is, "that'd be great, thank you Hannah."   _Help your mom is kidnapping me_ , he texts to James, and stuffs his phone into his pocket before following her back down to the main apartment.

The coffee cup that Hannah presses into his hands is oversized, and smells so good Sam could almost cry.  "So, how's school treating you?" Hannah asks, settling her hip against the kitchen counter.  "You're at Hunter, right?"

Sam's experience with meeting a girlfriend's folks has gone one of two ways: either they hate you on sight or they're a little too thrilled about it.  It's strange to be standing in James' mother's kitchen, chatting - his _boyfriend?_  Are they a _thing?_  - but almost stranger that she's in the _definitely too excited_ camp.  He would've expected - he's not sure.  Maybe the way Lou took it, when he first told her.  That strangeness that took a few weeks to wear off, like suddenly she couldn't stop seeing him in his underwear.  But they make small talk about Sam's coursework, how he's liking Brooklyn, what his folks do, and it's not any worse than it ever is. 

"You've a beautiful house," he says, when he's tired of talking about himself, because it's true.  Through the big double doors, the main apartment is as old as the rest of the building is.  The rooms are divided by what Sam can only assume are original French doors, top heavy and a little too grand for the comfy, worn furnishings and the parquet floors that creak underneath his feet.  The rooms are narrow, but the kitchen looks out over a neatly tended back yard, and the rooms are lit up with warm sunlight.

"Thank you," Hannah says, beaming, "my great aunt bought it in 1954 and it's been in the family ever since.  I don't know we'd be able to stay in the area otherwise, it's gotten so expensive."

Sam’s pocket buzzes.  He checks it when Hannah turns away to pour herself some more coffee; it’s James, who’s texted a line of distraught looking emojis.  Hannah picks up her own phone from the counter and laughs.  “Jim says I'm a terrible mother and should let you escape immediately."

"Nooo," Sam says, a little awkwardly.  "I'm all right, it's good getting to know you.  I appreciate the coffee."

"You lemme know if you need to run, I'll put it in a mug for you," she says.  "You want a tour of the house?"

The first stop is back in the dining room, whose crowning feature, besides a whole mess of grandiose looking built in cabinetry, are the family photos. They fill up most of the walls, squeezed between the built ins and flowing up and over doorways.  Sam takes a step towards the center of the room, trying to take in the scope of it all, and then draws closer when something catches his eye.

There, at the edge near the kitchen, is James in his Army portrait, close cropped hair covered by the green beret, eyes very blue and serious, looking barely anything like the man who kissed Sam’s cheek goodbye this morning.  It makes Sam’s heart hurt a little - a lot - some ghost of an old joke he doesn’t get to tell anymore.

_("White folk don’t all look alike, man, be nice to your people."_

_"Sam you fuckin know we do, least til we grow out that high and tight.  Like a buncha fuckin raw potatoes out in the sun.")_

“You got any naked baby photos he’s not gonna want me to see?” Sam asks, past the lump in his throat.

There’s nothing too bad up on the wall, just jenko’s and backwards caps, Brooklyn in the ‘90s, James baby faced and sulky looking, his hair in a center part like Jonathan Taylor Thomas.  Hannah drunk with her arm around a blonde girl who pops up again in an EMT outfit, flashing an impressive bicep and a crooked grin at the camera.  "This Steve's mom?" he asks.

Hannah's mouth twists in a smile.  "Yeah," she says, her eyes soft.  "Jess.  She was my best friend."

James again, with another blonde Sam recognizes: the girl from Steve's burlesque group, who picks up the clothes from the stage in between acts, the one with the unbelievable tits, who Hannah points at and says is James’ younger sister Esther, who Sam's only heard of in passing.  He bites the inside of his cheek so hard he thinks he can taste blood.  Steve’s up on the wall too: early childhood, recent times and a name change announcement in the Irish Echo.  Hannah sighs.  "I always thought they'd get married," she says, looking at a photo of the two of them, sometime when James must have been home on leave, two whole arms visible, the left one crushing Steve into his side hard enough that only one of Steve's feet is touching the ground.

Sam frowns, eyes flickering over the photo and the ones around it.  Hannah feels the shift of silence, and laughs awkwardly.  "Sorry, I didn't mean - that's rude of me.  They dated in high school, but that's been over for years and years.  We were all so _surprised_ when they broke up, but - well, people grow up."

"Sure," Sam says, absently, because she seems to expect some sort of reply, but startles a little when he looks over at her.  It’s as if she's overflowed, that happy parental interest flickering in the bright corners of her eyes.

"I'm so glad he met you, Sam," she tells him.  She looks down at her coffee mug and touches her thumb to each eye, delicately pressing away whatever had been threatening to leak out.  "I haven't seen him this happy in years.  It's really - it's been so hard, since he’s been back - all the surgeries and everything else, that first year - but he's come so far since then.  He works so hard, but it's tough for him to meet people who could have any idea what it was like to survive something like that that."  Then, in a last burst, like she can't help herself: "And you are so _handsome_ , and he likes you _so much!_ "

She laughs, and takes a sip of coffee, clearing her throat.  "Enough mom stuff," she says abruptly.  "That's worse than naked baby photos, to embarrass your kid."

"I like him a lot too," Sam says, and feels a little thrill of truth to it.  When she smiles, hesitant over the rim of the coffee mug, he returns it.

After a moment, they look back to the wall.  To the left, the pictures get older and older.  "So that's my dad," Hannah says, pointing to each picture in turn as she moves back through time, "Aunt Leba and my grandmother Rebecca.  My Great Uncle Frank and his first wife Leona, with my Great Aunt Esther.  Oh - I bet you know who these guys are, right?"

"Bucky Barnes," Sam answers, peering at the little photograph, "and Steve Rogers.  Holy crap."

The photo he's looking at is grainy and pale, the two of them maybe 11 or 12.  They're outdoors and squinting up into the sun, their little boy chests puffed out proudly and their arms hooked together at the elbows.  They look like they could be anyone's ancestors, only Rogers' crooked nose and Barnes' dimpled chin to give them away as the people who grew up to change the course of history.  Below it is a studio portrait of the Barnes children, taken probably a few years earlier: Bucky boyish and handsome, the two little girls clustered close to him in their best dresses, a fat, grumpy toddler in his arms.  Above it is Bucky Barnes the soldier, eyes guarded, and looking back towards the other end of the wall gives Sam a profound feeling of vertigo: James, seventy years later, against what might as well be the same flag.  They might have been the same age when each photo was taken.

"How come these aren't in a museum?" Sam asks, after a moment.  Hannah shrugs.

"The Smithsonian's been calling a lot again, in the last year - I think they're looking to put an exhibit together for Cap's 100th birthday.  It's coming up, you know," she says, "and they don't think Aunt Esther will make it, which is - she probably won't, but it's _ugly_ , that they're so open about it.  They wanna squeeze every last Captain America story out of her, while they still can."

Sam looks over at her.  "She doesn't like talking about them?"

"Oh no," Hannah says, and laughs.  "She _loves_ talking about them.  She will talk your _ear_ off about Bucky and Steve, if you ever meet her.  I probably know as much about the two of them as the people who write their dissertations on Captain America.  She just - she likes talking to family, that's all.  It's family business."

She wraps an arm around her waist and sighs, one slim finger tapping against her coffee mug.  "Losing Bucky and Steve," she says, "it practically destroyed our family.  Their deaths were this whole big, dark thing that my grandma never talked about.  Uncle Frank never even came back to New York, after the war.  Aunt Esther _still_ gets into fights with people on the street if she sees Bucky or Cap on a t-shirt or a protest sign she objects to, and she turned 89 last year.  She actually sued the government for the copyright to Bucky's likeness, back in the 60s, but by that time they were both basically common domain.  I mean, there's all this _stuff_ she has, that used to belong to them - when she goes I probably will dump most of it on the Smithsonian, but not before then.  She's had to put up with sharing them with the world long enough."

"Sounds like you guys are real close," Sam says, because that's a lot and he's not sure what else to say.  

Hannah's shoulders curl in a little, but she manages to smile at Sam, razor thin.  "This family knows a lot about losing soldiers."  


-  


He texts James, a little later, tells him _I'm invited for family dinner at your house next Tuesday._

James sends back a picture of his own face a few minutes later, sweaty and exasperated looking, tucked into the bathroom at the yoga studio.  

Sam types out _You never told me you and Steve_ , hesitates and deletes it.  Writes _Nudes plz_ and then, a second later, _Are we dating?_

The response is almost instantaneous.   _Duh._

"Cool," Sam says to himself, and, feeling horrifically precious, takes a photo of himself smiling and sends it to his boyfriend.

 


	4. Chapter 4

****  


It's a Friday night, and they're going out.  Sam's been there most of the day, buried in schoolwork, and Steve and James have been fighting for the last hour about a change in plans.  First it had been dinner in K-town, then karaoke; then it'd been a rooftop thing in DUMBO; now a drag queen festival in Bushwick.

"Peggy's gonna meet us there," Steve says, wandering back into the room still only half dressed.  James whips around, the game controller almost falling out of his hand.  On the screen, a terrorist shoots him in the head.

"What?"James says, heedless.  "Why can't she come here?  I thought we were all going to go together."

"Buck, she just told me she's in Williamsburg, there's no reason to make her come all the way down to Crown Heights just to go back two fuckin subway stops away from where she already is," Steve says, exasperated.  "She wouldn't even get here for an hour."

"So?" James snaps, a little viciously.  " _It's going til 4, Buck, there's no rush.  We can get there whenever, Buck._ "

"You wanna pay for cabs back and forth?" Steve counters.

"I'll drive," James says.  

"No you fuckin won't!  You're too baked _now_ , you're not driving my car anywhere."

"Peggy could come here," James suggests, "we don't really have to go, you're not performing."

"Quota," Steve says, and whatever that means brings out a thunderous scowl on James' face.  Neither of them are paying any attention to Sam now, although James' hand is restlessly squeezing Sam's knee.

"End of the month's not for three more days," James says.

"Yeah and you work all of 'em," Steve says, implacably.  "You're going.  I'm going.  Sam's going, if he isn't sick of you hanging off him yet."

They both look at Sam expectantly, who raises both hands.  "I am not in the middle of this," he says.  "I am doing homework."

James makes a noise of sheer frustration, and bounces up to his feet and out the door. They hear him clatter down the stairs and then open the big creaky doors to his mom's place.  

Steve makes an almost identical furious sound and stomps over to his dresser.  The knobs of his spine stand out like little islands as he bends over and starts to dig through a bottom drawer.  "He's fine," he says over his shoulder.  "He'll calm down once we get there and he can scope the exits or whatever.  It's the anticipation that gets to him."

"What's quota?" Sam asks.

Steve ducks his head, and doesn't answer for a moment.  He holds a button up shirt to the light critically and shakes it.  "He never leaves the apartment unless I make him," he says almost angrily, pulling it onto his shoulders.  "Yeah, okay, it's a big fuckin deal he has a job now and we're all really proud of him, but what kind of life is that, just going to work and then coming home?"

Sam looks down at his textbook.  He went out a week ago with Tim and Jim, an art opening in Chelsea for some friend of theirs, then an after party to some private club on 14th where he lasted exactly half a drink before booking it to the subway.  He'd come here the day after, got two fingers up his ass for the first time, spent the rest of the evening sprawled naked in James' room, talking idly about their war - like most nights, lately.

Steve threads a tie under his collar and deftly ties a half Windsor.  He turns to look at Sam and hesitates, frowning.  "Alright?" he asks.

"Looks good," Sam answers, even though he doesn’t think that's what Steve's asking.

James does pay for a cab, and they all pile into it in various degrees of silence.  Steve's been on his phone for most of the evening, tapping messages back and forth with the girl Sam's heard so much about.  "They got arrested together at Occupy Wall Street," James had said, and rolled his eyes.  Steve had blushed and muttered a lot, but hadn't lost his pleased glow despite James' mood.  

Sam's tired - he would've been good giving in to inertia and just staying in, and James' leg is jiggling restlessly against his own.  He pats it, absently, and after a moment feels cool fingers wrap around his own.  The cab stinks, something acrid that immediately gives him a headache.  He rolls down the window, watches Brooklyn shed trees and grow warehouses as they move north.  The cab dodges neatly around a cop car stopped dead in the street, doors flung open, a young black kid pinned down on the hood by two officers.  James's head tips over onto Sam's shoulder, warm and good smelling.

They pull up in the middle of a rundown block in Bushwick, distinguished only by the gaggle of drag queens smoking cigarettes outside of a graffitied slat fence, and the thump of music.  Beyond the fence is a makeshift event space, pulsing with people - in costumes, maybe, or drag, or maybe just their ordinary clothes: sometimes Sam can't even tell anymore.  A yard, lit up with strung lights and the ambient glow of the streetlights, capped at one end with a stage and a massive psychedelic mural.  A building to one side, freight doors open, too small to contain the dance floor.  For a moment they all stand and just look out over the crowd.

"I need a beer," James says, and Steve punches him on the arm.  It's the wrong one, and there's a hollow thump and a flinch, but all that happens is Steve rubs his knuckles and says, "Come on, I see Peggy and Angie."

And for a while it's not so bad.  It's even a little fun.  Peggy and Angie are as nice as someone can possibly be when you're trying for small talk on a dance floor.  They do dollar shots, right away, bright blue and tasting like candy, and then a second round of them.  He lets Angie buy him a real drink, something with whiskey in it that at least washes the taste of the shots out of his mouth.  There are people in stilts and robot costumes, lurching around like they're zombies, or drunk.  It's hard to breathe.  He listens to Angie shouting in his ear but can't really understand what she's saying, watches Steve and Peggy, dancing close together.

He thinks about dancing.  Maybe James would want to dance.  But James isn't there.

He looks around - there's a fire exit to the street behind him, and the doors to the yard and a corridor to the bathrooms, both of which are right in his line of sight.  Nothing.  Steve washes up next to Sam, looking sweaty and happy, and tips his head over towards the bar.  Another drink?

"You seen James?" Sam shouts, instead.

Steve looks around the dance floor like he's never seen it before, digs into his pocket for his phone, frowns at it.  "He's around," he shouts, and shows Sam the blank screen.  "He calls if he needs to leave."

"I'm gonna go find him," Sam hollers back, trying not to get jostled, trying not to jostle anyone else.  His stomach hurts from the sugary alcohol; it's too hot in here and no one's looking where they're going.  He doesn't know why everything _fun_ in this city has to be so fucking loud and crowded.

Outside, the night air is sour and oily smelling.  It’s quiet on the rest of the block, just the thump of the - club, event, whatever - behind the high brick walls.  The rest of the neighborhood’s not much more than warehouses, dimly lit.  Cars rush by, out of eyesight.  He can hear the tinkle of an ice cream truck somewhere, even though it’s past midnight by now.

_Where’d you go?_ he taps into his phone, and tucks it back in his pocket.  “Hey, you see my, uh, you see a white guy in a leather jacket come out?” he asks the queen watching the door.  She eyes him over her cigarette, shifting on her towering heels.  

“Who, Steve’s friend?” she asks.  “Yeah, he went that way.”  

“Thanks,” he says, and turns his feet towards the slightly brighter lights of Knickerbocker St.

“Hey, he okay?” she calls after him.  “He didn’t look too good.  He usually says hi at least.”

Sam throws a vague smile over his shoulder, picks up his pace.  The street is almost empty in both directions - a few people walking purposefully towards where he assumes the subway is, the rustle of something rooting around in the garbage.  He digs his phone out again.  Nothing.   _Did you leave?  Are you ok?_

He waits a moment, standing like an asshole on the corner, his whole body itching.  Nothing.  Maybe James was fine.  Steve hadn’t seemed worried.  Steve had said James always called if he needed to leave.  So he was probably fine.

But he’d just been _gone_.  Sam had turned around, and James had just been gone.

The brightly lit sign of a bodega catches his eye.  It’s the only thing open for the two blocks or so he can see in each direction.  Maybe, Sam thinks.  Not great - narrow space.  Multiple exits, sometimes one leading underground.  Brightly lit.  Probably a mirror up in the corner, though.  One of those curved ones you could see the whole store in.  And it'd be better than being out on the street.

The door jingles when he steps inside.  It smells like cats, and spilled beer and cleaner.  There are two teenagers sitting behind the high counter, almost hidden behind the scratched plastic barrier.  Middle Eastern, maybe, and profoundly uninterested in anything but their phones; they don’t even look up.  But there, high up in the corner, is a big curved mirror, and a tiny figure in black standing at the best angle to watch both doors.

James is backed into a corner, framed by shelves of kitty litter and no brand dish soap, one arm wrapped around his waist and the other clapped over his mouth.  He drops both as he watches Sam round the corner of canned goods, stands with his arms flexed and shoulders up.

Sam stops, caught by the look on his face and the ready posture.  “Hey, man,” he says, “you all right?”

James takes a big breath, so big it catches up at the top, and lets it go slow.  “Yeah,” he says, and smiles.  “Yeah, I’m good, I’m good.  What’s up?  You didn’t have to leave the party, I just wanted to get some Gatorade.  It got hot in there.”

Sam takes a step forward, frowning.  "Did you take something?" Sam asks.  It's the first thing he thinks, looking at James, who's shifting from foot to foot.

"What?" James huffs, "no, I told you, I got hot.  I wanted some Gatorade."

But he just stands there, back against the wall, eyes flickering up to the mirror over and over.  "Your pupils are dilated," Sam says, and takes another step forward.  "You're sweating.  You sure you didn't take something?"

In his mind he's running through the possibilities - he hasn't had to deal with overdoses too often, but they happened even in Afghanistan; usually prescription pills, once heroin from one of the locals.  He saw Angie palm something to Steve earlier but didn't get a look at what it was, didn't see if James took it too.  He has no idea what else James takes, for the arm or his PTSD or whatever, what kind of reaction -

"I didn't _take_ anything," James snaps.  "Just let me buy some Gatorade and we'll go back to the fucking party.  All right?"

"We don't have to," Sam says, taken aback.  "I wasn't having a good time anyway, I'm down to call it a night if you're not feeling it."  

James’ chin lifts, his eyes wide and glassy.  "Why wouldn't I be feeling it?" he says, low, spacing out the words like he's gonna bite them off otherwise.  "It's a party.  You don't think I can handle a party?"

"Didn't say you couldn't," Sam says, frowning.  The door jingles and admits a couple of drunk girls, giggling, who make a beeline for the beer on the other side of their aisle.  James' eyes flick up to the mirror, back to Sam.  Back to the mirror.  "Let's just go home, we did enough cool kid shit for the night.  I'm sure you hit quota or whatever Steve calls it."

James bristles.  "Do _not_ ," he says, between his teeth, "pull any of your therapist bullshit on me right now, I am not in the fucking mood."

"I'm not trying to - you look like _shit_ ," Sam says, and there's more edge to it than he wants there to be.  He hadn't even _wanted_ to go out tonight, and he'd felt tired and anxious and itchy at the party but now he's just _mad_.  "I turned around and you were _gone_ , you couldn't've taken two seconds to tell me you were leaving?"

"I was gonna come back!" James says, almost shouts, and without noticing it they've gotten close enough that they're right up in each other's faces, close enough that Sam feels spittle on his face.  

He pushes James.  Not hard, just enough that James stumbles back half a step, his eyes huge and pale.  For just a second Sam sees the shock register on his face - sees him freeze up at the contact - and then he _snarls_ and Sam feels real fear pour like ice down his spine.

The door jingles.

"Bucky?" Steve calls out, and barges around the corner like he owns the place.  He stops dead when he sees the two of them, short enough that Peggy crashes right into him.  She peers over Steve's shoulder, blinking owlishly at the light overhead, her lipstick a gash of color across her face.

James lets out a wordless howl, smothering most of it behind his hand.  The wrist of his jacket's pulled up and Sam can see the plates on his wrist lift and settle, little tinny noises underneath the VCR hum of the arm itself.  "Motherfucking - _Christ_ , Steve!" he yells, loud enough that even the bodega guys look up from their phones, warily.  He jerks away from Sam abruptly, retreating back to the kitty litter.  "The fuck you gotta bring _her_ with you for?"

"What's going on, Buck?  You okay?" Steve asks, warily.  

"I was until you guys made it a fucking party in here," James hisses.  "I just wanted some goddamn Gatorade, I wasn't looking for _therapy hour_.  You're all _nuts_ \- acting like I got kidnapped or some fucking thing.  I was _gonna come back_."

"We were worried about you," Peggy says.  Her face is solemn but her voice sounds like she's trying not to laugh.  Sam risks a closer look; both her and Steve's pupils are blown wide, which is goddamn perfect.  

"Well it ain't your fucking business, _Peggy_ ," James snaps.  "The fuck do you care, anyway?  We're not _friends_.  You don't _know_ _me_.  Steve doesn't owe you _shit_.  You're just gonna fuckin dump him again next week anyway, you fuckin _dyke_."

"What the fuck!"

It comes from Sam, startled out of him.  The ugliness of the word, spat out into the thin, chlorine and cat air of the bodega.  Steve and Peggy gaping at James openly, either stunned or slow on the uptake from whatever they're rolling on.  He feels a strange, prudish shock - how unexpected and sharp, coming from someone who - who should _know better_ , who had Sam's cock in his mouth only this morning, where the fuck is he getting off calling someone that?

James rounds on him.  "What the hell is _your_ problem, anyway?  You said you wouldn't head shrink me, you _promised_."

"No one's shrinking you, you're just being an asshole," Sam says, incredulously.  

"Sam," Steve says, but Sam rides right over him: "No, man - I don't deserve this.  I was trying to help, make sure you were okay, and I come in here and you just act all nutty.  You don't want anyone's help that's all you gotta say."

"That's all I gotta say," James repeats, bitter.  "That's all I _was_ saying.”  He turns away, shaking his head.

"You believe this fuckin guy?" he asks, directed either to Steve or to thin air.  "Like I'm some kinda charity case or something.  Like you got it all figured out."  He looks at Sam, lip curled.  "You know, I got by just fine before you showed up and I'll be fine when you're gone, too."

Sam sucks in a breath.  James just stares at him, eyes flat.  Fists curled.  "That how it is?" Sam asks.  

Something flickers in James' face, but Sam turns away.  Not sure if he really wants to see the answer anyway.  

Steve catches his arm, but Sam shakes him off.  Ignores the soft sound of James calling his name, and goes home.

He walks a few blocks and then flags down a cab, defeated by the logistics of getting back on the train or a bus, aching and confused and needing not to be in public anymore.  It starts to rain, Brooklyn around him shedding warehouses and growing trees, and when he's back in Prospect Heights he realizes abruptly that he can't go inside to his apartment, going inside would be impossible, so he puts his hood up and starts walking.  He walks to Prospect Park, skirts the edges of it, heads down the Flatbush Ave side for a while, zigzagging back north when he starts to feel like it.  The rain's not much more than a heavy mist, just enough to quiet the sound of cars on the street, to mute the sounds of people laughing as he passes them.  He stops at a roti shop, eats standing up at the little counter in the front window.  Goes home when he's pretty sure Lou will be asleep, pulls his window open all the way, and lays down in bed.

Watches the rain drip off the top pane, yellow and shivery in the haze of the street lamps.  Doesn't sleep.  Doesn't sleep.  Doesn't sleep.  Tries, periodically; manages it once only to jerk awake fifteen minutes later still feeling blistering heat on his face, smelling oily black smoke and the sweat of his own body.  

Gives up when it's light enough that the birds wake up, changes out of last night's clothes and into his running gear.  Takes a second to rub his thumb over the key James had given him only last week, before shoving the whole ring into his pocket and heading out the door.

James is sitting on his front stoop, visible through the glass front door to Sam's building.

Sam stops, two fingers on the door handle.  James' hair is loose and messy looking, parted by the rain over the pale stretch of his neck.  He's got a sad looking bouquet of roses in one hand, twitching aimlessly back and forth.  

James scrambles to his feet when he sees it's Sam.  He holds out the flowers, silently.  Sam stares at them, trying to summon up a better response than perplexed silence.

"There was only one shop open," James said.  "I know they’re kinda gross.  I walked to Eastern Parkway to find a shop that was open.  Sam, I'm sorry.  I really am."

Sam takes the bouquet, warily.  Turns it over in his hands for lack of something better to do.  The roses smell damp and perfumey in the cool air.  God, he's tired.  James looks tired too, like he didn't sleep either.  Sam wants to touch him so badly.

"I was a real asshole last night," James says.  He tucks his hands under his armpits, almost hugging himself.  "I shouldn't have yelled at you and Peg."

Sam nods, slow.  "Yeah," he says.  "Yeah, you shouldn't have."

James nods too.  He's down on the first step, looking up at Sam, face tipped up into the mist.  "Can I come in?”

He must see the answer in Sam’s face, because he looks down at the ground, jaw working.  “My sister’s asleep,” Sam says.  James’ eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t look up.  “There’s a coffee shop around the corner we can go to.”

The lone barista looks as sleepy as Sam feels.  James pays for the coffees, for a pastry for each of them.  They sit near the window and eat the food that’s in front of them.  Sam barely tastes it.  “So what happened?” he asks, after a while, even though he kind of already knows.

“Got scared,” James says, softly.  He shakes his head and laughs, just a soft huff of breath.  “Sorry, it’s - all that therapy and it’s still hard to admit, you know?  I was a good fucking soldier, and I had to run screaming into the night cuz a drag queen on stilts came up behind me and scared the shit out of me."

Sam wants to laugh too, but can’t quite manage it.  “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?” he asks, even though he kinda knows the answer to that too.  He takes a sip of coffee rather than reach for James’ hand, the fingers on his left hand tapping out a hollow rhythm on the table.

“Couldn’t,” James says, eyes downcast.  “Wasn’t thinking clear enough.  It was loud and packed and suddenly I thought, anyone might have a gun.  I know it's stupid.  It’s a queer party in Bushwick, for god’s sake, no one’s gonna have a gun.  But all I could think was that, you know, Steve's not safe and you're not safe and Peg and Ang aren't safe.  I used to try and stick it out when I got like that but it, uhhm, I guess you saw how that ends."

“When you left,” Sam says, and for a second can’t finish the sentence, “I got scared too.”

James hand twitches.  He nods.  “I shoulda said something.  I shoulda tried to tell you.  Everyone else - they all _know_ , that sometimes this is - this'll be the third time I take Peggy out for an apology dinner, but _you_ , uhm.  This is - it’s new for me.  Having someone - there hasn’t been anyone since I came back.”

“You telling me you hadn’t been laid in two years?” Sam says, because he can’t help himself.  

James laughs, sounding startled, and rubs a hand over his face.  “No, I'd been laid in the last two years, thanks."  He sighs.  "It’s important to my family that I go out and be a person. I don't ever wanna hurt them again so I do it, I go out.  Most times I end up sitting by myself in a bar, creeping people out, stoned out of my fucking gourd so I don't stress out too bad.  And that's okay.  It's been good enough for a while now, but I -"

Sam takes his hand.  It's hot and calloused under his fingers.  The prosthetic one folds over on top of Sam's and they sit in silence, staring at their clasped hands.  "I like you a lot, Sam," James says hoarsely.  "I like this thing we got going.  I know you said you weren't looking for anything too complicated and that's, that's okay, I know I got a lot of baggage.  All I wanted to say is that I’m sorry.  And I'm tired of living the way I been living, and I'm gonna do better."

Sam thinks about all this.  James lets him do it, sits quietly, lets his coffee get cold on the table.  His face ready like he’s waiting for orders.   

“First thing,” Sam says, after a while, “I’m sorry I pushed you.”

James’ eyes widen.  He pulls a hand off Sam’s, reaches for his coffee.  “It’s okay,” he mumbles into the cup.

“It’s not,” Sam says, “no more than you yelling at me.”

James looks away, takes a rapid breath.  Sam reaches out, smooths his free hand over the tangle of brown hair around James' face, carefully.  “You can’t do that kinda shit to me,” Sam tells him.  “It doesn’t matter if I can take it or not.  Whatever system you got worked out with Steve, you need to include me in it too if this thing is gonna work.”

That gets a response, in big, hopeful blue eyes.  “Look, I gotta ask point blank,” Sam says.  “Were you diagnosed with post traumatic stress?”

James licks his lips, nods.  “Me too,” Sam says.  

James sits back in his chair.  His hand is still wrapped around Sam’s, sweating a little now with the warmth between them.  “I didn’t know,” he says, frowning.  “You always seem like you have your shit together.”  

Sam shrugs.  “Maybe,” he says, and considers this, how he wants to put it.  “I heard it described once as a state of being.  Goes from white to yellow to black.  People that haven't been through awful shit live in white. They don't fear things as they walk down the street. Yellow is when you are afraid, when your alarm bells are ringing off the hook. Black is when it becomes permanent, 24 hours a day, where that fear is all you can see.  I’m not there.  But I know how it feels.”

James’ fingers tighten around his.  He's looking at Sam, but Sam can't quite manage to meet his eyes.  Not even Lou knows about that part of it, that stark truth of _your brain doesn't work quite right anymore_.  

James clears his throat.  The coffee shop is getting busier, people coming in with their dogs, pushing strollers.  He leans in a little to talk.  "There's a - ritual we do," he says.  "It's therapeutic.  Steve and I, we do it every few months to clear our heads out and get right.  It's helped a lot more than the talking kind of therapy, for me.  I was gonna call Doctor Strange today, see when we could set one up since I guess I'm overdue.  Maybe it'd be good for you too."  He shifts, rubs a thumb over the heel of Sam's hand, and smiles, a little shy.  "I think it would.  It'd - I'd like to have you there."

"What kind of ritual?" Sam asks, and James asks, "You ever hear of ayahuasca?"


	5. Chapter 5

 

When he lets himself into the apartment, Steve launches himself from the kitchen and wraps Sam in a tight hug, up on his toes to get his arms around Sam's shoulders.  Sam hugs him back, a little surprised by it.  Steve feels impossibly thin in his arms, delicate like Sam could snap him in half if he wasn't careful.  "Hi Sam," he says, "good to see you.  I'm really happy you're coming with us tonight."

"Where're we going?" Sam asks, only half joking.  Steve grins up at him, detaches and goes back to the kitchen.

"Making us some snacks for after," he calls.

James is in the living room, drawing a grumbly vacuum across the floor.  There are pillows and blankets stacked up on the couch, more than Sam's seen in the house before.  "Are you borrowing your mama's linens to do drugs on?" he asks, lifting the edge of a quilt that looks like it was sewn by someone's grandmother.

Together they lay out a patchwork nest like the kind Lou used to build for Sam when he was little, to draw or read books or whatever.  He'd worn comfy clothes, and skipped dinner, as instructed.  He's hungry, and a little nervous.  It's been awhile since he's done anything like this.  Steve comes and hunkers with them after a while, the two of them sitting on the ground in front of the couch, James' back up against Sam's chest, browsing one handed on his phone.  Steve turns the TV on, some Netflix show Sam hasn't seen before, and scoots close enough that his knee brushes against Sam's.  James reaches over without looking up and squeezes Steve's knee, leaves his hand there for a while.  They wait.  

Doctor Strange arrives in the tow of Natasha, the emcee from Steve's troupe, who is unspeakably beautiful up close.  She's hispanic, Dominican maybe, with dark skin and delicately spiraled hair Lou might actually kill someone for, dyed an intense red.  Doctor Strange himself is a black guy of an indeterminate age and accent, wearing the sort of shapeless, beaded shirt that Sam associates with hacky sacks and Burning Man.  He greets Sam with a nod and a handshake before setting his stuff up on a side table.

There's not much to it.  Strange walks them through the process for Sam's benefit.  There are two jars full of different colored murky liquid, and some plastic shot glasses that Strange unpacks and sets up in a circle on the nest.  Drink the tea, try not to puke for as long as possible, and come out the other side a new person.  "I'll be walking you through the first part," Strange says, "and watching over you for the rest.  If you feel scared, call out for me if you can - I'm here to protect you from any harm."

Steve lights a few candles, carefully placed up on high shelves away from potentially flailing bodies, and turns on the kind of soft, psychedelic music Sam was expecting.  James had hung up some blankets over the front windows, so with the lights out the darkness is soft and intimate.  There's a cool touch on his wrist; he turns his hand over and threads his fingers in through James'.  Strange lights a bundle of sage, wafts it gently around them and then leaves it to smoulder in a bowl.  They drink their tea together.

"That's it," Strange says, and collects the little cups from them.  

"Really?  That's it?" Sam asks and laughs a little.  "I thought there'd be more to it, like - chanting or singing or something."  

Strange shrugs.  He's got a candle in front of his knees so he's lit up from below, his face softened but still easy enough to see.  On James' other side, holding James' other hand, Steve is a ghost-like blur.

"Some people want an authentic Amazon religious ritual," Strange says, his eyes cutting to the side, "some people just want to feel better.  I'm a guide, not a shaman.  If some chanting helps you get there, we can do that."

"I guess I'm alright," Sam says, "but - man, I haven't eaten meat for three days.  I thought -"

Strange laughs, his teeth gleaming white in the darkness.  "Meat stays in your gut longer, my friend," he says.  "Less to expel later on."

Sam's gut starts to cramp up right around the time the walls start to sparkle, and he's watching the skin on the back of his hands start to move.  "Hey," he says, and James hums back at him, starts rooting around in the blankets to make himself a bed to lie down on.  "Wow, hey."

"Buckets," James says, gesturing, and Steve says, "it's fear in you, don't give into it," and Sam says, "whoa," the sound of it long and drawn out and murky sounding, like the damp end of a tunnel he can barely see the light out of.  The world smells like moss, and water, and when Sam breathes in he breathes in water, soaks it in through the membrane cracks in his nose and the parched dust of his throat, fills all the way up with water -

and he breathes out.  

He breathes out light, light like the sun at its highest apex, clear and gold through the thin air that whistles past his ears and smells like ozone, like the oil on his wings, the heat of the light cradling him like the warmth of a blanket, shining steady and more beautiful than anything he's seen since the first joyful flight, spiraling high enough to see the curve of the earth and the limits of everything he'd ever known -

He laughs, suddenly, and Steve is laughing with him, the two of them sitting cross legged on a whispering sea of blankets, lit up in soft darkness.  Steve is the sun, he's the _sun_ , and it's suddenly imperative to tell him that, but all that Sam can do is laugh and reach out his hand.  The brush of their fingertips is like the end of the word.

He looks for James, who’s lying on his side, curled up into a blanket, his eyes chips of mica in the darkness, his head pillowed on his hand, the other hand held out loosely in front of him.  He's watching it closely, fingertips curling and relaxing, gleaming, and Sam leans forward, touches the tip of one finger against that shiny silver palm, and from it blooms silver flowers, shivering in the light of Steve's sun.  James' eyebrows lift, like he can see them too, and he closes his fingers around Sam's, strokes gently, each nerve ending a riot of rainbows lighting up the whole of Sam's world.  He gasps out loud, he's panting, overwhelmed by the touch of the sun and the gentle rub of those silver fingers and -

and he breathes out.

He knows Strange is talking, guiding them down the rabbit hole, back down the mossy tunnel and Sam thinks _okay_ , strong and clear like bells, and lets himself follow Strange's words through shining concentric circles, under the delicate leaves of ferns as tall as mountains, through a desert more vast and gold than the one he knew.  He is electric.  He is effervescent.  He is filled with more joy than he knew a body could take.  Natasha, too, is talking - seeing a world of bioluminescence, all of them, each of them sparks of electric life in the darkness, which makes _sense_ , because Steve is the _sun_ , and James the shore that Sam has washed up on, silver and cool and healing in the moonlight.  

He gets up, at one point, to vomit in the tiny bathroom.  He fills it like a giant, every inch of it, moving his bulk carefully through an ocean of white tiles so that they don't break and let the rest of the world in.  He squeezes under the little toilet, the tile floor a sheet of ice under his knees, and expels poison from his body.  It lasts forever.  He vomits for decades.  It's black with engine grease and old blood.  It smells like blood too, and staring into the toilet bowl he can see fingernails and teeth, bobbing on little islands of thick black hair.

"Nope," Sam says, and reaches up a shaky hand to hit the knob.  Washes his hands after, mechanically, the vague sense that maybe he should, at some point this was something he was expected to do, avoiding his eyes in the mirror.  Sees strong, capable black hands covered a froth of thick soap instead.  Sweet smelling, and he rinses quickly, _don't get stuck in the bathroom dummy_ , but when he looks up he catches his own gaze in the mirror.

He sees, to his profound relief, that it's him, and that's enough.

The darkness of the apartment is sweet as morning air, sweet like candy in his lungs from the smell of the sage and from Steve and James, the cologne and socks and weed smell of the apartment, a whole life he breathes in and out.  How long have they been doing this?  How long is this going to last?  It feels like he's never done anything else in his whole life and yet he hasn't left his body, he's been in it the whole time, present and whole and aware and strong in his body, god this is amazing, he'll never be able to express how grateful he is that this is happening to him.

He sits down, clumsily, next to James.  He's sitting up now, still wrapped in blankets, his hair coming down around his face.  He's beautiful.  He's the most beautiful thing Sam's ever seen.  He's crying.  Expelling toxins too, like Sam just did.  His whole body is shaking and shivering.  He and Steve are kneeling together, James' hand wrapped over the nape of Steve's neck, their foreheads pressed together.  Steve is crying too.  Sam tips over, slow, and nestles his head into the crook of James' neck.  Warm.  His hand ground down into the earth for balance, grounding them all, rooting them all the way down into the schist.

James' arm comes around Sam's shoulders, warm, completing the circuit between three of them.  "You're a bird," he whispers, amazed, warm.  The dragging, drugged, sweet press of his lips on Sam's forehead, splitting Sam's skull open, cracked wide to the universe and through that gaping, jagged edge Sam tips and falls and flies away and is gone.

and he breathes out   ****

 

and he breathes

 

and  
  


 

he opens his eyes to a vast, dry space.  Red earth, turquoise sky.  A road stretching off into nothingness, blacktop and stark highway lines.  The smell of dust in his nose.  The smell of his own sweat.  

he turns his head.

says, "Hey man."

far away, something explodes.  Black, greasy fireball in that turquoise sky.  A ripping, world ending crack of sound comes after.  The fire is bottle green, blinding.  It spreads across the sky and from it pours a warm rain.  It spatters on his skin, gentle enough to burn straight through him.  

he says, "No, I didn't forget.  Never."

the fire reaches down for him.

he holds still.  A trapped animal.  Shaking all the way down to his bones, shaking all the way apart.

he says, "I never been so glad to see you in my life."

he says, "I missed you.  I miss you every day.  Nothing's been the same since."

there are things falling from the sky, trailing greasy smoke and green fire.  An arm, maybe.  Twisted metal feathers.  It takes a hundred years for them to hit the ground.  They smash into pieces with dull, wet sounds.

 

he says, "This time I'll keep you safe, Riley."

the fire drips onto his face.  It burns him up.  He spreads his hands wide, lets himself be lifted, be burned.  The road curling up like paper lit on fire, stink like asphalt and salt in his nose, the air shimmering in the heat.  

the fire shrinks.  He holds it shivering between the palms of his strong and capable hands.  The sky is white, the sky is full of stars.  He holds the fire in his hands, presses it into his chest.  Feels his insides make space for it.  Feels it burn him alive.

 

-

 

A while later, a long while later, there's a cool hand on his shoulder and the damp press of lips against his temple.  He's given water and helped onto the couch.  Steve crawls under his arm and they eat sliced, sticky fruit together, James at Sam's feet, his head resting on Sam's knee.  No one turns on the lights.  Eventually Strange blows out all the candles, collects the pile of money from their kitchen table, and he and Natasha leave.  It's still dark out.  It’s been barely four hours.

No one speaks.  James' face is red and raw looking.  There are a few little cuts on his face, already scabbing over, where the plates of his prosthetic hand had caught on his skin.  Steve shivers, every once in a while, like a lost little animal pressed up against Sam’s side.

James stands first, holds his hands out, and they pile into his room and into his bed without talking about it, Steve stripping down to an undershirt, James tugging off his yoga pants and crawling under the covers in his shorts, Sam pulling his shirt off and following bare chested.  James in the middle, Sam's head tucked up under his chin, the curve of Steve's spine molded against James' side.

He sleeps.

 

-

 

When he wakes it feels like it happens all at once.  The window is open and the thin curtains drift on the breeze.  It’s early still, he can feel it in the quality of the light.  He can’t even remember the last time he felt so relaxed, so rested.  So warm.  

He’s laying on his side closest to the door.  James is on the pillow next to him, his long legs sprawled across most of the bed, and Sam has one arm up underneath him and the other stretched over - oh, it's Steve.  Steve's here too, that's right.  His face mashed up between James' shoulder blades, both fists up and caught between James' back and his own chest, Sam's arm across both of them.  

Sam settles back down, nudges closer until his forehead touches James’, runs a hand down the bumps of Steve's ribs.  Closes his eyes.  Dozes a little, floating somewhere just under consciousness.

He wonders what each of them saw, if it was anything like -

It had all felt so real.  So crystal clear in his mind, the way it still feels.  His chest is warm and alive.  How beautiful it had all been.  

James shifts.  His knees pop and crackle as he stretches, rolls his shoulders.  The prosthetic wakes up and hums for a moment, a comforting little white noise in Sam’s ear.  It occurs to Sam suddenly how happy he is - how foreign the feel of it is in his body, this intense lightness of being.  He remembers how everything had made clear, ringing _sense_ last night, even all of them being - whatever it was, bioluminescent fish or whatever, like he'd lost all his skepticism and had it replaced by simple, dumb joy.  Sam smiles, breathes in James' morning smell, sour breath and warm skin and the last faded edges of his shampoo and cologne.  And is happy.  

Through the slits of his eyes he can see James wake up a little, smiling broad and beautiful with his eyes still closed.  He brings up a hand and lays it clumsily over Sam's cheek, his wrist warm against Sam's throat.  He's hardly felt anything so good in all his life, at least until James kisses him, slow and wet and sleepy.  Happy little sounds in his throat, just the softest hum.  It could be his name.  Probably his name, if Sam could stop kissing him long enough to get it out.  He's so lucky.  He's so happy.  James' toes nudge against his own, their feet tangling together, grinning into each other's mouths.  

There's a shift - the bed moving underneath him, tipping him closer into James - enough that Sam's eyes open just wide enough to see Steve, propped up on his elbow and peering at them over James' shoulder, expression muzzy with sleep.

And there's a moment there, not much longer than a quiet inhale of breath, where he and Steve look each other, James nibbling at Sam's jaw, his tongue hot against Sam's throat, and then Steve shifts up and over and kisses Sam on the mouth.  

It's not tentative.  It's firm, and direct, and he catches Sam's lower lip, just the barest press of his tongue against it.  Under Sam's chin James goes wholly, completely still.  Sam eases back a little, waits for James to look up.  They're both looking at him.  James licks his lips.

Sam's heart speeds up abruptly.  He leans forward, brushes his lips over James' temple.  Forward, to kiss Steve again.  

James exhales, sharp and loud in the warm air between the three of them.  His teeth in Sam's throat a shock all up and down his body.  His hand gropes up and finds Steve's, gripping each other tight.  Kissing Steve is a battle, all focus and confidence, like what he might've thought it'd be like, if he'd ever thought about it.  But he _has_ , he thinks suddenly, he has thought about it, quick and in passing, that idle curiosity he has towards any of his friends, that _I wonder._

"Can I," James says, breathless, and untangles himself slowly, sitting back on his haunches.  He draws his hands over both of them, aimlessly, like he doesn't quite know where he wants to touch.  Steve sits up a little, reaches for him, and Sam watches them kiss.  Easy, no hesitation.  The familiarity of bodies that have known each other forever.  He waits - for his stomach to cramp, for that spark of jealousy - but it's okay.  He feels okay.  They look gorgeous, and James' hand is on his thigh, squeezing, checking in, and his whole body still feels stuffed full of light.  This is okay.

James eases back.  "Keep kissing him," he says, to one or both of them, so Sam does - leans back towards Steve and loses himself in it.  His chest tight with anticipation, with suspense - he's never done this before.  Never two people.  He's not sure where to put his hands either, what's okay to do.  He's gotten used to James and his height and bulk, and Steve feels so different, so good, his hands moving fearlessly over Sam's chest and belly, sweeping a little lower as James pulls Sam's shorts off.  

Steve pulls away, looking nervous for the first time.  The set of his jaw like the first time Sam ever met him, ready for the fight.  He pulls his tank off up over his head, and then kneels up, and lets James take his sleeping pants off too.

Sam's not sure what to expect - he's never asked, it's never been any of his business - but underneath Steve's clothes is just a body, skinny hips and blond hair, a cock that's small and perfect as the rest of him.  Behind it are the parts Sam guesses he was born with, but there's no strangeness - just that burst of joy that's been building in Sam's chest, spilling over to fill up the rest of him.  Sam sits up too, and kisses Steve, and James kisses Steve, and kisses Sam.  

James eases them back down, and knee walks down towards the end of the bed, pulling an elastic off his wrist and pulling his hair back in one swift motion.  Sam's heart is racing.  Steve takes hold of Sam's cock, looking up through his eyelashes to see that Sam's okay, and holds him steady as James licks around Steve's fingers and takes Sam's cock in his mouth.  

He trades off between them for a while.  Sam props himself up on one elbow, watches James suck Steve's cock, his prosthetic hand holding Steve's, his other hand working the length of Sam's cock.  He's most of the way off the bed, too small to fit all three of them properly, too small even when it's just James and his long legs.  Steve's got his face turned into Sam's neck, soft little pants and groans into Sam's ear, lighting him up almost as much as the hot, tight suck of James' lips around his cock.

"Do you," Steve says, and then moans, his fingers gripping tight on Sam's arm as James licks him, slow, "Sam, you guys have condoms, right?"

James looks up.  His mouth is red, his lips and chin wet.  "You sure?" he asks, hoarse.

Steve's looking at Sam when he nods, "Yeah," not asking permission, exactly, but searching Sam's eyes for some kind of answer.  

Together, they rearrange: James against the wall, finally as naked as the rest of them, Sam next to him.  Steve straddling James' thighs, jerking himself off as he watches Sam roll a condom onto James' cock.  Sam thinks, distantly, that maybe he should feel weird - watching his boyfriend get ready to fuck his ex-boyfriend, or watching anybody fuck anyone else right in front of him, sitting next to the action instead of immediately involved, that this is really _happening_ \- but he doesn't.  It doesn't feel much weirder than the rest of the sex he has.  James is sweating a little already - a gleam on his chest and temples, abruptly inviting, and Sam leans over and licks the salt taste off James' skin, draws his nipple into his mouth and sucks on it a little, loving it when James gasps and starts kissing Sam wherever he can reach, on his forehead, the crown of his head, his ears.  He's bucking under Sam's hands, hard enough that Steve laughs, getting tossed around a little.  

"He's gonna come before either one of us fuck him, you keep doing that," Steve says, and Sam has to laugh too, amazed.  When he looks up James is looking at him, looking wrecked, his whole face creased in a huge, un-self conscious grin.  He watches James' eyes go huge and a little shocked looking, like he feels so good it sorta hurts.  Sam looks over his shoulder, sees Steve's face drawn tight, taking a moment to adjust as he slides James' cock inside himself, working up and down the length inch by inch until it's all the way in.  

"You okay?" Sam asks, and Steve looks up, grins.

"Yeah," he says, and reaches behind himself and takes a grip on James' balls, tugs on them as he rolls his hips forward.  "Don't you fuckin come," he tells James.

James laughs, shaky, tips his head back and knocks it against the wall.  "Try and stop me," he says, and goes rigid when Steve pulls on his balls, hard enough that even Sam winces, even when James starts laughing harder, crazed and happy sounding.  "Fucking Christ," he gasps, "shit fuck, god, _Sam_."

"He'll get a turn," Steve pants, and Sam's aching all over, ready for it.  Steve's grinding down on James' cock, not fucking around with it, both hands braced on James' chest now to balance.  Sam wants to touch him - puts a hand on the small of his back, feels the flex of his hips - "oh god oh _god_ ," James stutters.  Steve reaches back but Sam gets there first, not too tight but tight enough that James howls, eyes squeezed shut, grinning breathlessly.  

"Stevie, Stevie, you gotta -"

"Yeah," Steve grunts, and licks his fingers, wraps them around his cock and tugs, twice, and then shudders all over, his other hand spasming on James' chest.  His head tips back, chest heaving, eyes shut.  After a moment he sags over, tipping into Sam's arms, kissing him messily, hungrily.

"You want more," Sam guesses, and beside him James says, darkly, " _Always_."

"Always," Steve agrees, and laughs, and moves Sam's hands to his ass, "I can still come three or four times, so why the hell not?"

Sam scoots down until he's mostly flat on the bed, Steve knee walking up so his thighs are around Sam's ears.  Sam can feel the tension in them, the anticipation as he licks at Steve's cock, soft, barely there little kisses, trying not to overstimulate.  All he can smell is sex and latex, heady and overwhelming, the strangeness of putting his mouth were James' cock has just been, the smell of his sweat laid over Steve's.  Steve has no compunction about putting his hands in Sam's hair, guiding him exactly where he's wanted.  Slow and soft.  No faster than the steady inhale exhale of Sam's breath.  Letting it build until Steve's trembling all over, held right at the wire edge they were keeping James at, until -

Sam keeps him steady as he comes down.  Still kissing him from time to time, no intent to it, just enjoying the taste on his tongue and the little shivers that wrack through Steve when he does it. He knows James is moving around, can feel James' touching him, two fingers running down Sam's thigh or up his cock.  He's been hard long enough that the ache is distant and sweet, and James' touch is patient.

"Jesus," Steve sighs, and eases off, collapsing so suddenly that he almost falls off the bed. He scrubs a hand over his face, reaches out and pats Sam, pats James, who's moved half on top of Sam and is busy kissing the taste of sex out of Sam's mouth, off his jaw and chin.

"Get on top of me," Sam orders, and James growls, obeys, angles so that their cocks are trapped together between their stomachs.  The sudden pressure and sensation is blinding, thrusting against each other, slick and wet with sweat and pre-come, _Jesus Christ_ , and it's sweeter than anything until James shakes his head, kneels up and takes Sam the same way Steve just took him.  Too hot for it to go slow, just a second to slick Sam's bare cock up, find Sam's eyes, check in, _yes? please?_ and then pushing him inside.  One hand braced on Sam's knee, leaning backwards, fucking hard and deep - one hand laced over Sam's, pressed over his heart.  It's so much - it's so good - Sam's whole body lit up - he's electric, he's effervescent - and when he comes he whites out completely.  

He goes over like the crest of a wave, and is smashed to pieces on the other side.  His body like the aftermath of a firefight, the whole world bright and close, glimpsed in little pieces: James' hair, come loose and tickling against his chest.  The slick skin under his palms, the rapid beat of his heart, pounding in his ears.  They're holding each other.  He has no idea where his body ends.  

Something soft - Steve's lips, he's kissing Sam's temple.  Sam cracks an eye open enough to see him do the same to James, whisper something in his ear and linger just a moment into the touch.  

"I'm gonna shower," he says, soft.  Pads naked out of the room.  Just the two of them now, James breathing slow and deep into the crook of Sam's neck, his weight pressing Sam steadily into the bed.  Sam strokes a hand down his back, circles aimlessly around his spine.  The shower kicks on in the next room.  Stereo, too - something poppy, maybe, too faint to make out the words.

"You okay?" James whispers, after a long while.  Moves his hips just far enough away to ease Sam out, wipe them both with the edge of the blanket.

"Yeah," Sam whispers back.  "Yeah, I'm real good."

James props himself up a little onto one elbow, looking Sam in the face.  There's a question on his face, and Sam can think of a few possibilities of what it might be.  He must see some kind of answer though, because he relaxes, and smiles, that slow wide smile that had caught Sam's eye like a fishhook, his whole face crinkling up with it.  

And then suddenly blushes, biting his lips around the smile.  Sam's heart, just slowing back down, kicks twice - little bursts of light.  "What's that face for," he murmurs.

"What face," James says, just as soft.  

"I dunno," Sam says, "that dumb face you're making, what is it?"

"Just a dumb face," James tells him, and shifts over a little so he can wrap himself more securely around Sam.  Pulls the blanket back over them, bundling it up a little to avoid the wet spots they've left.  In that cradle of warmth, his chest full of fire, Sam closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that ayahuasca can interact badly with many forms of medication, including anti-depressants, and potentially can cause an overdose. Please be careful and do not mix with other drugs.


	6. Chapter 6

 

On July 18th, for the second year in a row, Sam doesn't get out of bed.

Sure, he _gets out of bed_ \- stumbles into the kitchen and downs eight ounces of water in a practiced, mindless chug.  Drags himself into the bathroom as needed.  Once he eats a piece of bread, plain and cold from the fridge, where it lives to keep the mice and roaches away.  He gets out of bed, and then goes right back.

Lou pokes her head, tentatively, into his room early that morning - confused more than anything else that there's not coffee and a chocolate croissant waiting for her on the dining table.  He pretends to still be asleep.  She lingers for a moment, but she's only four years older than he is and never mothered him, not really.  She closes the door behind herself without saying anything.  

She texts an hour later, from work: _You sick?  Want me to pick up some soup or something on my way home?_

He looks at his phone, propped up on the nightstand.  His eyes feel like they have fishhooks in them.  They're dry and gritty as desert sand.  He closes his eyes, but only for a few minutes at a time.  He doesn't sleep.

Sometimes he's angry.  Sometimes at the universe, vast and unfair and childish.  Mostly at himself.

James texts around 10.   _Good morning :)_ he says.

_Good morning_ , Sam thinks, and his hands twitch where he's got them folded over his head.

Did they have plans today?  He didn't see James yesterday so maybe, _maybe_.  It's summer break and other than an internship Sam's got lots of free time.  He's been spending a lot of nights at James' place.  They go out during the day sometimes, low pressure stuff: the Cloisters and Fort Tryon Park.  Red Hook, to eat crabs on the water.  A climbing gym in Gowanus, full of affable hippies who cheer to see James dangle high up on the wall, hanging from one shining metal arm.  Two weeks ago they'd skipped town for the 4th, taken Steve's car to a bare bones campsite up the Hudson River, far away from fireworks.

Do they have plans?  He can't remember.  He has no idea.  

He thinks of reaching out, picking up his phone, replying to his sister.   _I'm okay.  I'm fine._  

Thinks of telling one of them, _It's Riley's birthday today.  We used to celebrate by drinking beer that had practically turned to syrup in the desert heat.  Did I ever tell you we went through selection together?  We never once talked about what would happen if neither of us made it, or if only one of us made it.  I always knew we'd be going together.  We got our wings together._

He closes his eyes.

Startles an hour later when his phone chimes.  He hasn't slept.  God, is there anything to drink in the house?  He needs to sleep.  He needs to sleep.

_U okay?_ his phone says.   _Still on 4 dinner tngt?  Ma is makin tacos._

In his head, Sam says, _Riley's favorite book was Rikki Tikki Tavi, even though he was a grown ass man.  He was 29 when he died.  I saw it happen._  

The phone chimes again.   _Sam u okay?  U sick?_  

Sam rolls out of bed, drinks a glass of water in one go, gets three steps and runs the rest of the way to the bathroom, where he throws it all up.  It still tastes like water, and it goes until there's just stringy, yellow bile coming up.

The apartment is dead silent all around him.  Not even traffic noises.  Just the hum of the bathroom fan and the A/C in his room.  White noise.  He lets himself tip over, tucks his knees as close to his chest as he can get in the narrow space.  The tile is cool under his cheek.  There's grit against his cheek.  Apartment's due to be swept.  He should do that.

Faintly, he can hear his cell phone ringing.

There are two missed calls, spaced five minutes apart, when he can manage getting to his feet and making it back to bed.  His fingers feel numb when he grasps the phone and unlocks it.  Doesn't listen to his new voicemail, just taps out, _Ate something bad, puked all morning.  Been sleeping it off._

Sam chews on the inside of his cheek, adds, _You okay?  Didn't mean to worry you._

James' reply is almost instantaneous.   _Oh shit, that suxxxx.  Lucky u I'm a great nurse.  What flvr gatorade u like?_  

_No,_ Sam says, instantly.   _You don't need to see this, it's nasty._  

His phone rings.  "Hey," James says.  "Sorry, I hate texting.  Hard to do with one hand."

Sam coughs, clears his throat.  On the other end of the line, James makes sympathetic noises.  "I don't mind nasty," he says.  "I'm pretty used to nasty."

The hell of it is, it sounds like he means it.  Like he really wouldn't mind.  Sam's stomach cramps again, even though there's nothing left in him to throw up.

"Nah, I'm all right," he says.  "I'll just be sleeping all day.  I think the worst of it's over, anyway."

"You sure?" James asks.  "It sucks being alone when you're sick.  I know I hate it.  I'll bring my laptop, we could watch some dumb movies, nap all day ..."

There's spit building in Sam's mouth.  Maybe he really is gonna puke again.  "I'm sure," he says.  "Means a lot that you're offering."

"Course," James says, soft, and then clears his own throat.  "Well, if you're not better by tomorrow I'm coming over anyway."

"Like I could stop you," Sam says, and manages to laugh.  It sounds fake to his ears but James hums a little, like he's pleased.  

"Yeah, you try it," he says.  "All right.  Um.  Bye Sam.  Text me later, let me know how you're feeling.  Drink water."

When they hang up Sam's fingers are clenched tight around his phone, hard enough that the edges cut into his skin a little.  His other hand is crushed over his eyes, blocking out all the light.

 

-

 

Sam jogs up the front steps, throwing a wave and a hello in the direction of old Marie's scowl, and unlocks the big front door with his key.  His first stop is the main apartment, with a perfunctory knock - Hannah keeps her door unlocked just the same as James does, but it's never stopped feeling weird barging into her apartment without an invite.

James' little sister, Esther, is sitting at the kitchen table, dressed in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of bikini briefs.  She's twenty one and largely a mystery to Sam.  She's as blonde and fine boned as James is dark and broad; the only way the two of them look much alike is in their eyes, which are the same pale blue as Hannah's.  

"Hey," she says, a little groggy, and then turns her head to shout, " _Mom!_  Sam's here!"  Sam winces.

"Hello!" Hannah calls, from the open back window.  There's a pause and then the rattle of the back stairs, followed closely by Hannah herself, smudged with dirt from the garden.  "Sam!" she says, delighted, and heads in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.  

"Hi," Sam says, and lifts his hands, shaking the bag of pastries a little.  "Brought you guys some treats to make up for missing taco night last week.  There's a real good bakery just opened on Nostrand."

"Oh, that's okay, Sam," Hannah says.  "I'm glad you're feeling better, we were all worried about you."

James and Steve's apartment is quiet when he lets himself in.  It's a hot summer morning and stuffy up on the top floor, even though the place is buzzing with electric fans, which encourage the barest hint of breeze in through the open windows.  The air is thick with the smell of weed, despite the early hour.  Sam bumps the door closed with his hip, peers over towards the living room, and sees two pale, hairy feet poking over the arm of the couch.

James is sprawled out on his back, Steve lying boneless on top of him, both of their eyes closed.  Seeing them like this, the size difference is striking - both of Steve's thighs could make up one of James', whose prosthetic hand is big enough to span almost all the way across Steve's back.  Both of Steve's hands are fisted in James' t-shirt.  As Sam's standing there, struck, one of James' eyes cracks open and then the other.  He grins and Sam takes the invitation, dropping to his knees next to the couch and setting the coffee and pastries a safe distance away.  

James' hand lifts, traces a warm line over Sam's cheek. "Hiya," he whispers.

Sam leans in, accepts a kiss.  "He sleeping?" he says quietly, nodding at Steve.

James shrugs, jostling Steve minutely.  "I dunno," he says, still whispering, "he's really baked.  Not sure if he's asleep though."

"Isn't it -" Sam glances down at his wrist, even though he hasn't worn a watch since the nineties.  He already knows it's just past 11am. " - a little early for that?"

James shrugs again.  "Peggy broke up with him again," he says, soft.

"Oh," Sam says, and isn't sure what else to say.

"Yeah," James says, "I know.  Feels like they do this every other week but it busts him up every time.  We were up half the night."

"I'm awake, quit talkin about me," Steve grumbles, his face mashed into James' chest.  James laughs, and ruffles his hair.  Steve swats at him ineffectually, and then levers himself up enough to look Sam in the eye.  His face is flushed with the heat, sweaty where he was pressed up against James.

"Do I smell coffee," Steve says, very gravely.  

"And Danishes," Sam tells him, just as serious.  Steve regards him silently for a moment, his face drawn into a frown, and then he nods and clambers awkwardly off James, almost kneeing him in the nuts in the process.  

"You guys still up for the beach?" Sam asks, watching this whole process.  James uncurls a little from his protective ball, hands coming up off his groin.  He grins at Sam, a little crooked.

"Sure," he says.  "We're fine."

"I'm very stoned," Steve informs Sam, one hand wrapped tight around the coffee cup and the other clenching a Danish, holding both up in the air like he's posing for a picture.  He takes the daintiest possible nibble of the Danish and says, "What the fuck are we waiting for?  I want some sand in my asscrack immediately."

Steve wakes up a little on the way to the beach.  James drives, as usual; Sam has yet to see Steve drive his own car, which is a rattling little death trap whose primary function is to ferry Steve and his burlesque costumes to obscure parts of Brooklyn.  It doesn't go much over 50 and even that's a struggle, so they take surface streets instead of attempting the highway.  As soon as they turn onto Flatbush Ave, Steve heaves himself up with a sigh and drapes around the back of the passenger seat, his temple pressing against Sam's shoulder.

Sam reaches back, scratches Steve's head.  "You okay, pookie?"

There hasn't been a repeat of - of that morning after, and they haven't talked about it since.  The only difference Sam's noticed is Steve transferring some of that easy physicality from James onto him.  He's thought, maybe, that he should ask - if it really ended years ago between them, who James had fucked in the two years since he lost his arm, if it’d been Steve - if they'd ever done something like that before.  Shared someone.  But it hadn't really felt like that at the time - had felt more like he and Steve were sharing James between them, and as the weeks have gone on it just hasn't ever come up.

"Yeah," Steve says, but makes himself a liar by signing heavily into Sam's neck.  "Sorry, I'm being dumb.  Bucky's right, this just happens sometimes.  We work it out, and she wants to stay friends -"

In the driver's seat, James snorts.  "Rude," Sam says, but Steve just laughs, rueful.  

"Nah, it hasn't worked out too well before," he says.  "But this time - I don't know.  Maybe this time it'll be different."

"What happened?" Sam asks, because it seems like the next thing to say, in conversations like this.  He'd been kinda - well, it had hurt, when he'd thought James was breaking it off with him, that night in the bodega.  It had twisted him up inside pretty bad, but if it had gone down that way it's not like he would've died or something.  Life goes on, unless it doesn't.  But he scratches Steve's head some more, gets him right at the base of his skull where his hair turns short and thin, makes a noise that sounds sympathetic.

Steve sighs again.  "It's complicated," he says.

"Peg's a lesbian," James says, and then to Steve, "it's not that complicated."

"It's complicated," Steve repeats, and socks James on the shoulder.  He says to Sam, "this fuckin guy doesn't get it.  Peggy's not friends with any of those anti-trans assholes, she doesn't think that way, but - it's, it's hard for her.  To treat me like a guy.  To be in a 'straight relationship'."  He makes quotes with one hand, half heartedly.

James makes an honest to god _harrumph_ noise, from the driver's seat.

"You know how it was, when she first met me," Steve grumbles.

"How was it?" Sam asks.

Steve and James look at each other, in the rear view mirror.  There's a tense, unexpected moment of silence.  Sam leans back from the window, turns to look at Steve.  "I was in a bad place," Steve says, and chews on his lower lip.  "It was right after, you know - and I'd gone off T - I was, I was in a bad place.  She pulled me out of it.  I owe her a lot."

The car lurches and rattles, hard enough that Sam almost knocks his head against the low roof.  "Fuck," Steve spits, heartfelt.  "You actually _trying_ to break my car?"

"I can't help potholes," James says, and drives them straight over another one.  

There's no A/C or stereo, and they've got all the windows down.  The hot, sour breeze drifts over the back of Sam's neck, cooling it enough to be bearable.  Flatbush Ave is crowded with people, the road thick with gypsy cabs and dollar vans, honking pointedly at the few stray white people on the sidewalk.  James zips through the mess as comfortably as if he was playing a video game, only the slightest tic in his jaw betraying any stress.

"All I'm saying is," he says, "she wants to live in a box, let her live in a box."

"You got some nerve saying shit like that, the way you used to talk about bi guys," Steve says, but it lacks heat.  James shoots a guilty look at Sam, regardless.

Sam gives him a level stare.  "I don't think like that anymore," James says quickly, and reaches back without looking to pinch Steve's ear.

"That we're really just gay and too scared to admit it?" Sam asks.  "That we're slutty?  That we're hiding behind - what'd you call it, Steve? - straight privilege?"

He's just talking shit - he likes the word, sure, it's a pretty good way to describe how he feels about himself.  No one's ever said things like that to him, he's never been hated on personally for it - but he knows he's hit the nail on the head when James blushes and looks away.  Sam moves in closer, lets James see he's gonna slide a hand up his thigh before he does it.  His fingertips catching on the rough hair on James' thigh, just under the bottom edge of his cut off shorts.  James licks his lips, the bottom one disappearing between his teeth.  " _You_ scared to admit it?" Sam asks, low and teasing. 

"Admit what?" James says, grinning.  His hips flex up, just a little, encouraging.  Steve makes a disgusted noise and flops back into the back seat.  

"Can't you guys at least keep your hands off each other's dicks while driving?" he complains.  "Jesus Christ."

Sam scrapes his fingernails over the inseam of James' shorts, picking idly at a loose thread there like it's not a bare inch away from where James' cock is, still hidden primly by his clothes.  "You dated Steve for like three years," Sam says, "you really telling me you didn't cross over any other times?"

"Never crossed over," James says, a little breathless.  The car dodges around a delivery van, stopped dead in the street like it was on an empty road instead of the middle of a city.  "My record's perfect.  I'm a gold star."

"That's lesbians," Steve says, from the back seat, and then makes a faint, anguished sound.  He scrambles back up, popping up as sudden as a Jack-in-the-box into the space between the front seats.  Sam pulls his hand away, startled, and James sighs.  "No more lesbians," Steve says, decisively.

"Yes!" James says, and raises a silver fist.  "Also no more poly people, date someone who isn't already living with a girlfriend."

"Peggy has a girlfriend?" Sam asks, and then, feeling stupid, "wait, is it Angie?"

"Yeah," Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck.  The car's stopped at a light, boxed in on all sides by delivery trucks.  The street is getting broader, less crowded, a blue sky opening up around them.  "Yeah, they been together forever."

"Holy shit," Sam says, "You date swingers.  Is it just, like, all threesomes all the time?"

James bursts out laughing before Sam can think about what he's said.  Steve shakes his head.  "I never had sex with with Angie," he says.

"All right, maybe I'd cross over to jump in on some of _that_ hot lesbian action," James says.

Steve gives him a flat, unimpressed look.  "You are so problematic," he says.  "Anyway, _no_ , it is not all threesomes all the time.  I was - I mean, Peggy and I were never really _dating_ , anyway, so it's not really fair -"

" _Almost dating_ is a dumb relationship to have with someone," James says.  

" - can we _not have this conversation again_ ," Steve says, aggrieved.  "It's over, let me nurse my fuckin heartbreak a little bit, and anyway _who cares about monogamy!_  We get to take ourselves out of all this gender normative bullshit that the cishets care about, why do you still want to play by the goddamn rules?  You wanna get married or something, move out to fuckin Jersey for a better tax rate and good schools and a slow slide into obsolescence?"

"What's wrong with wanting to get married," James says, his shoulders up around his ears, and doesn't look at Sam.  "You talk all the time about queering marriage; let normal come to us."

" _Damn_ , you are salty today," Sam says to Steve, "lay off the man, he was up all night nursing your broken heart."

James bites his lip around a smile.  He reaches over without taking his eyes off the road, takes Sam's hand and brushes a kiss over his knuckles.  Steve sighs heavily, slumps down heavy in the back seat and closes his eyes.

They pass the rest of the ride mostly in silence.  The landscape peels away to flat, scrubby grassland and ramshackle houses that remind Sam of the beach towns down south of where he grew up, weathered around the edges.  The road skips close to the water and then away, then abruptly gives them a glittering view of the bottom of Manhattan, far across the bay.  

The air is still hot and thick but at the shore the wind is cool and salty smelling.  Sam had been overseas when Hurricane Sandy had swept through the year before, and hadn't paid it much mind once he knew Lou was safe in her inland apartment, but Jacob Riis Park still looks pretty scarred from the experience.  There's broken piling where a boardwalk used to be, and sandbags piled up in front of the low concrete walls that hadn't been quite enough to protect the neighborhood behind them.  

The beach itself is well-populated regardless, knots of families playing frisbee or splashing in the water, all normal enough until they come within view of the eastern end of the beach.  Sandwiched between a rocky jetty and screaming children is a densely packed forest of rainbow umbrellas, elaborate cabanas and topless women rubbing sunscreen onto each other's shoulders. They have arrived, abruptly, at the party.

Tim and Jim have one of the cabanas, strung all over with silvery plastic fish that spin and glitter in the wind.  There's a card table groaning with snacks, a patchwork carpet of beach blankets under their feet, and a winding fence of waist-high windshields between their camp and the water.  There's ten or so guys around and a few more in the water Sam recognizes, splashing around with a frisbee.  There are air kisses to submit to and drinks to be pressed into their hands, barbecue to be had once the coals are ready.  

Not everyone’s met James and only Tim and Jim had met Steve, so once introductions are over there’s a bit of quiet, awkward silence where small talk could either happen or not.  Steve wanders over to the barbecue to help supervise, and is absorbed into the group in short order.  James folds himself down onto one of the blankets so Sam follows, both of them belly down and stretched out under the warm sun.

They sit in silence for a while, watching the world pass by.  The sand is gritty and dry underneath Sam’s hands, familiar.  The sound of little waves on the shore, quiet and unceasing.  James sits up, grabs a plate of food for both of them, refills Sam’s drink.  He’s got a bottle of water for himself and he rolls it over the back of his neck from time to time, smearing the sweat collecting along his hairline.  He’s one of the only guys on the beach still wearing a shirt, and definitely the only one wearing a glove and long sleeves.

“You hot?” Sam asks, in an undertone, and James shrugs, shoves a handful of Doritos into his mouth and crunches through them.  The look he tips up to Sam is warm, though.

He nudges Sam, points with his eyes back towards the three abandoned buildings looming behind them, fenced off and halfway to collapse.  Sam turns onto one elbow to survey them.  Weathered brick, stone or concrete addition on the front, obvious decay on the roof.  Bottom two floors boarded up, top two floors left open to the elements.  

"Hostages on two," James says in Pashtu, swallowing his chips.  Sam nods thoughtfully, chin jutted out, and they share a grin.

"How many hostiles?" he asks, in the same.  His accent’s better than James’s, which is good and right with the world.

"Nineteen," James says, "but most of them are village boys.  You got seven fully trained militants in there with them, though."

Sam hums a little, draws a few lines in the sand, considering.  Easiest to go in from above, of course, but James was probably thinking the same thing.  There'd be someone on the roof to fire at him, or it was rigged with IEDs.  With the suit it wouldn't be a problem to come low, shoot right into the second floor, but all of that really is classified; he's never told James about it.  "What do I have?"

James pretends to consider as he digs a cigarette out of his pocket, lights it.  "Me," he says, blowing out smoke.

"All right," Sam says.  "So I'd put you up -"

"Secrets secrets don't make friends," Jim says, in a sing song voice, coming over to sit next to them.  He holds his drink out and Sam clinks their plastic cups together obligingly.  "What are you guys talking about?  What language is that, even?"

"Ugh," Steve says, from over by the food table, "don't ask, they have the _creepiest_ mating rituals.  It's black ops games or something - surreptitious breach in urban terrain, gotta blow up all the buildings and make it twelve miles to extraction point without letting Al Qaeda know you're there."

"Black ops," James mutters, and Sam sighs.

"It's not surreptitious if you blow up all the buildings," he says, but Steve shrugs, already turning back to the latest iteration of an ever evolving argument with Tim.  They both look like they’re having fun, at least.  But the exchange attracted a bit of attention; the first meat is coming off the little grill, and there’s a little crowd under the cabana as everyone waits for real food to be dished out.

“Wow, I _totally_ forgot you were in the Army,” someone says, laughing.  He sounds embarrassed, like he’d forgotten Sam’s birthday, like this is something he should know.  Sam’s met him a few times - his name is Jacob, or Jamie?  Probably Jacob.  “You seem so _normal_.”

“I was in the Air Force,” Sam says.  He points at James, who has met Jacob before, albeit briefly when he came to pick Sam up from a bar.  “He was in the Army.”  James tilts his water bottle in acknowledgement: _cheers_.

“Wow,” one of the other guys says, and officially they have an audience.  “So did you guys like meet over there or something?  How romantic.”

“We met here,” James says.  He’s got his left hand tucked up into his armpit but he sounds affable enough.

“Oh, yeah,” Jacob says, sympathetically.  “They didn’t allow us in the Army until pretty recently, right?  It must have been awful for you guys having to hide yourselves, surrounded by so much ignorance.”  He turns to one of his friends, still toweling his hair, and they share a moue.  “I don’t think I could ever do it.”

Jacob is, Sam remembers, a nice guy.  He’s one of Jim’s artist friends, works in multimedia or something; one of the few white people Tim tolerates.  He grew up in Utah and it was rough for him, out there.  

“So how would you blow up the building?” someone asks.  They’ve all got big, expectant smiles on.

“Well, uh,” Sam says.  “We’re not blowing the building, we’re after hostages, so I’m looking for a quiet entry point.”

“Used to be a hospital,” James supplies.  “They would’ve been carting bodies out somewhere.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “that’s what I had in mind.  So there’s a chute or a tunnel or a discrete way in.  James is my MOE - my, sorry, my method of entry man.  He’s there to get us past anything that moves or tries to blow us up."

“They probably boobytrapped the morgue,” James says, thoughtfully, and Sam shrugs.

“Don’t be a cynic,” he says, “they probably booby trapped the whole place.  The damn building’s packed with jet fuel and high explosives.  Nah, we’re -”

He catches a gleam in James’ eye, and tries to bite down on a smile.  “ - we’re goin’ up the side,” he says.  “Grappling hooks.  Entry point is that uh, that blown out window on 3.  Roof’s full of pressure plate initiated IEDs, no good.  But our intel says 3’s where all the hostiles are sleeping - it’s about four in the morning we’re doing this, when the human body is most deeply asleep.  Two guards posted - one at the east wing and one at the south -”

“Holy shit are you gonna kill everyone?” Jacob’s friend breathes.

That hadn’t been Sam’s plan - it’s a lot of unnecessary attention and he always preferred bloodless when possible, but James says, grinning, “Yeah, we don’t wanna let them escape and attack America again, do we?”

Sam can’t help it; he cracks up, hard enough that he has to lean over, press his forehead into James’ shoulder to try and get a hold of himself.  The other guys laugh too.

“Wait, did you really do stuff like that?” Jacob asks.  “Rescue hostages and blow up buildings and all that?”

“I spent the whole time handing out soccer balls and pamphlets about how great America was,” James says, straight faced.

“So were you uh,” Jim asks, that quick little smile Sam’s seen on a lot of faces in the last ten years, as they figure out how to ask.  “Did you see combat?”

Sam doesn’t look over at James, afraid he’s gonna start laughing again.  “Yeah,” he says, and takes another sip of his drink.  “But it’s not - I mean, I was a medic.  It wasn’t really my job to go out and kill the bad guys.”

"Awww, so humble," James says, with a crooked smile.  "You'd never know he's the guy the Navy SEALS call when they need help."

Sam presses his lips together, smiling for real now.  Everyone looks very impressed, as if SEALS don't cock up any mission slightly too complex for an Army Ranger.  "Para jumpers are the scariest fucking doctors I ever met," James continues, to a captive audience.  "They kick in that door, you better be ready to witness a massacre.  Single shot to every hostile in the room, right to the face - then the weapons drop and they got you in triage faster than you can blink.  Fuckin amazing to watch."  He grins at Sam, bright and hungry.  "I wish we _had_ met over there, I'd've liked to see you in action."

"Don't know if you coulda kept up," Sam says, and grins back, "we hit fast.  Maybe faster than you CAG guys could fuck with."

"Wow," Jacob says, laughing, into the little silence that follows.  Jim's eyebrows are up at his hairline, his fingers denting into his plastic cup.  "Guess you're not that normal after all."

Sam's face goes hot.  “So are you a Republican?” one of the guys asks.  

James snorts.  "Just patriotic," he says, when Sam doesn't say anything.  He sits up, rolls his left shoulder out, and shakes a joint out of his pack of cigarettes.  "Hey, anyone want to help me smoke this?"

 

-

 

Sam's just back from a run when his phone buzzes in his pocket, James' face on the screen.

"Hey, you," Sam answers, wiping his forehead on his sleeve.  He's got the tap running and his blood up so at first he doesn't hear the quiet, uneven breath on the other end.  "James?" he asks, after a moment.

A deep, ragged noise.  "Sam," James says, and Sam's blood goes cold at the sound of his voice.

"What's wrong?" Sam asks.  "You okay?  What happened?  Is Steve okay?"

James laughs, a little shakily.  "Yeah, everything's fine.  Nothing happened.  I just, I have a favor to ask you," he says, and abruptly Sam realizes that he's gripping the counter hard enough that the blood's gone out of his fingertips.  His knees feel weak.  His heart's pounding.  He sits down right where he's standing, the water still running, and leans his forehead against the cabinets.  Jesus.   _Get a fucking grip on yourself, Wilson._

"Sure, sure," he says.  "Anything you need."

He's in midtown under an hour later, five minutes to shower and throw on something that doesn't stink of cold sweat, then thirty five anxious minutes on the subway.  It takes more than half of that for his hands to stop shaking and for the rest of him to stop jumping whenever the train doors open and people come pouring into his personal space.  He almost loses it again in Grand Central, the open vastness of it startling after slogging through the low tunnels that make up most of the station.   _Get your shit together, Wilson._

The place James directed him to is, unexpectedly, a L'occitane - staffed by an expensive looking person of indeterminate gender.  They look up and say, “Are you Sam?  Bucky's in the back," but before Sam can step further into the store a narrow door opens in the far wall and James steps out, looking worn all the way through.  He reaches for Sam, who goes gladly, and they hold onto each other in a lavender scented daze.

"I'm sorry," James says, his nose pressed into Sam's neck.  His whole body's trembling.  "Steve usually goes with me to these things but he had, he had a meeting or something he couldn't get out of, and I lost it.  I didn't know what to do.  I know you don't - "

"It's okay, it's okay, I'm glad you called," Sam says, and presses a kiss to James' temple.  Relief had washed over him as soon as he touched James and he feels stunned by it, bowled over by the implacable reality of him, the feel of his shirt twisting up in between Sam's fists.  James doesn't smell too great - morning classes today at the hot studio, the tacky grit of too many hours in midtown - but Sam takes in big breaths of him anyway.  The air of the shop helps, a little - maybe it's why James went to ground here, in soft smelling, close quarters.  

"You shouldn't, you shouldn't have to deal with this shit," James mumbles, soft enough that Sam barely catches it.  "I can't get a fucking grip on myself, this isn't shit anyone needs to see, it's bad enough when it's Steve but you - "

"Hey," Sam says, and moves his grip to James' shoulders, steering him back just far enough to make eye contact.  "Hey, quit it.  Why're you acting like this?  I got you.  Don't worry about it."

James' eyes stay glued to the floor for a long moment.  The sound of his prosthetic whirring is muted under the roar of Grand Central passing them by, the slap of thousands of shoes against the marble flooring.  His throat works.  "You're gonna hear some stuff," he says.  "They usually take it off to work on it.  It's not, uhhm.  It's not pretty."

"I've seen worse," Sam promises, and James' expression shifts, a little wry: can't deny that.  He nods, slow, and his eyes flicker up to Sam's face.

"You got me," he says, and Sam says, "That's the spirit."

The entrance to Stark Tower is on Park Ave, so they surface above ground just long enough to duck around the terminal.  The cafe that he ate lunch with Steve at is depopulated, defeated by the humidity and the stink of Manhattan in high summer, but Sam looks for Steve anyway, instinctively.  

James leads him unerringly up a series of escalators to an imposing looking security desk, and Sam gets his picture taken and his information logged into the building's system.  The inside of the tower is as ugly as the outside, all featureless chrome, dotted periodically with slowly spinning mobiles.  They take two sets of elevators to reach the 53rd floor, pausing to get their eyeballs scanned at the bay on the 24th floor.

"Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes," a soft British voice tells them as the elevator slows, and the doors open onto a wide, gleaming hallway.  

James keeps his shoulders back, his chin up.  He smiles reassuringly at Sam as he opens the door to 5322, like it's Sam's appointment they're going to.  Like he wasn't crying in the back of a cosmetic shop twenty minutes ago.  He introduces Sam to Miles, the massage therapist, and Dr Diallo, the robotic tech, who are both spotlessly decked out in matching Stark Industries scrubs and coats.  The place itself is spotless too - gleaming the way the lobby gleamed, big enough that Sam's not even sure whether it's an office or a lab or what.

"Mr Stark will be with us in just a few minutes," Milo says, and James doesn't quite hide his grimace.  "Let's do a quick eval and then we'll get you prepped."  

Sam's waved over to a long, low couch set up against the floor to ceiling windows, where he perches for a moment before getting up and restlessly casing the place.  Through the window, Manhattan stretches out under his feet, bright and glistening in the morning light.  The Empire State Building is just off to his right; the Chrysler Building probably just out of sight to the left.  To the south, the unfinished Freedom Tower and the abrupt cessation of skyscrapers tracing out the tip of the island.

He wonders what the air would smell like, this high up.  What kind of air currents he'd have to compensate for, around all those big buildings.

He looks back, finds James shirtless and holding a brightly colored therapy band in one hand, being positioned against one of the wide steel beams breaking up the space.  

Miles takes James through a series of stretches, first.  Right foot forward, left propped up on a thick block.  Left hand above his head curling towards the beam, right reaching across his chest.  "I'm going to touch your back," he says, and waits for James to nod.  Internally Sam relaxes, just a hair.

"Your scoliosis is improving," he says, approvingly, and Sam's shoulders twitch.  James holds the pose patiently as fingers dance up and down his spine.  He sees Sam watching and the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little.  "You've been doing your exercises?"

"I teach yoga," James says.  His voice is a little muffled, turned as he is towards his armpit.  "It's my job to stretch."

"I remember," Miles says, "considering it was my idea.  So how've you been feeling lately?  Any tightness?  How've your migraines been?"

James shakes his head.  "Okay.  Haven't had one this week.  Couple headaches.  Not actual migraines."

Miles regards a set of weights laid out nearby thoughtfully.  "How about your heart?" he asks, stooping to grab the heaviest.  He comes around to face James, drops the weight in his left hand.  "It was giving you trouble, last time you were here.  Step into the band for me - right arm forward."

"They gave me something for it," James says, hefting the weight and moving into position.  "Been fine since, no spikes or whatever."  He darts a glance in Sam's direction like he can't quite manage eye contact.  Sam settles his butt on the arm of the couch, tries to project calm support even though his own heart's been squeezing him for what feels like hours now.

"Give me fifteen of those," Miles tells him, and steps back to watch James obey.  

Tony Stark breezes in like a hurricane when James is on the seventh rep, mid conversation with his phone or thin air, Sam doesn't know.  "No, that's what I told him," he says.  Miles ventures a "Hello," which Stark ignores entirely in favor of stepping close into James' personal space.

Sam can't see James' expression from where he's standing, but Miles looks exasperated.  James pauses - right arm extended, the TheraBand stretched tight between his wrist and the bottom of his foot - left arm at his side.  Holding warily still as Stark leans in, arms folded over his chest, peering at the edge of the prosthetic where the plating meets skin.

"It's _not_ a vanity project," he says.  "It's a brave new world we're in, I'm just making sure the public knows about it.  You haven't even been out to the Fair yet, there's all kinds of - no, but _why_ \- "

There's a prolonged moment of silence where Stark circles Miles and James, and everyone watches him do it.  He holds up one arm, points it straight up, then rotates his elbow.  James follows the gesture, tucking his chin into his chest as Stark steps behind him, cranes his neck up to examine at James' elbow.  

"No, I never read those, that would be stupid," he says, and shifts closer, reaches out to touch.  

James drops his arm and steps away, frowning.  Stark lets him do it, his expression amused.  "Nah, look, I gotta go," he says, tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  "Let me know what time you land, I'll send a car.  

“Hi there, Sergeant Barnes," he says, in the same breath.  "How are we today?  Hope you don't mind me joining.  I had an opening in my schedule, thought I'd come and see how my work was holding up.  Good?  Perfect?  Hold nothing back, you deserve only the best."

"Good," James says, shortly.  Hesitates, then allows, "It's grinding a little.  Right under my armpit."

Stark nods.  "Thought so.  What's the noise it makes?  Weird hum or scratchy record sound?"

"Scratchy record," James answers.  

"Gotcha," Stark says, and leans back a little, taking in Sam's presence.  "Who's this guy?  Where's fun-sized Steve?"

"My boyfriend," James says, "Sam, this is Tony Stark."

Sam steps forward, and they shake hands.  Stark is a short man, and face to face seems a little old to be running around in a tin suit blowing up terrorists.  Judicious application of Photoshop for his magazine covers, Sam assumes.  He looks a little ashen, like he’s sweating out a hangover, but his grip is firm, and he peers up at Sam with interest.  "Boyfriend, huh?  Sergeant Barnes, you are full of surprises.  Is it weird that makes me want to hire you even more?  It's a little weird, maybe.  Come work for me, Sergeant.  We value diversity as much as we value highly decorated former Green Berets.  No?  Maybe next time.  You look familiar," Stark says, abruptly addressing Sam.  "We've met, haven't we?"

Sam presses his lips together.  "No," he says.  "Don't think so."

"What's your rank?" Stark snaps out, and even though irritation flashes through Sam he answers anyway, as quick as if it had been his CO asking.

"Staff Sergeant," he says, and doesn't add a _sir_.  Out of the corner of his eye, he sees James smile.

"You are Air Force, though?"

Sam frowns.  James frowns.  Stark smiles, like he's done something clever.  He's still holding on to Sam's hand, and Sam drops it, quickly.  "Don't worry, I'll figure it out," Stark says.  He looks to James.  "All right, chop chop, let's get that thing off you so Miles can work his magic and _I_ can work _mine_."

James tugs his arm over his chest as he steps up to the exam table they've got waiting for him, pressing his open right palm against the back of his forearm like there are muscles in his shoulder to stretch.  On the table is a weird set up, uncomfortable looking when James is in it - his forearm parallel to the surface of the table, palm curled up towards the ceiling.  Clamps around his wrist, inner elbow, bicep, like they're expecting the arm to escape, or fight back.  Dr Diallo perches herself on the other side of the narrow table, sliding safety glasses on.  She leans in close and starts tapping and prying at the plates with her instruments.  Stark pulls a phone out of his pocket and starts fiddling, the schematics for the arm abruptly appearing in the air in front of him.

Sam sidles closer, comes around to James' range of vision.  He knows better than to come close to the workstation, to get in the way of the doctors, but it's hard to hang back.  James meets his gaze evenly, his mouth curling in a tight smile.  The muscles on his back bunch up as he holds himself still.  "This is the part I hate most," he says.

There's a brief, discordant sound and the arm goes quiet.  James sags abruptly to one side, the cradle taking his weight until he can brace with his other hand.  Dr Diallo glances up over her safety glasses.  "Sorry," she says.

"S'okay," James mutters.  "Just always forget how heavy it is, like this."

"That's why you do your stretches," Miles says from across the room, leaning against his padded table, eyes on his phone.

"I stretch for a living," James protests, but it's half hearted, muted.  His face is gray.  Sam's hands ache, uselessly, balled up in his pockets.  He watches Dr Diallo's hands move on the underside of the arm, hidden from view - and then the top of James' shoulder is peeling back away from the skin, like a kid peeling the shell off a cockroach.  There's another moment of adjustment, Stark repositioning the arm in its cradle like it's not attached to a person, and then Dr .Diallo is easing James backwards and the arm is staying where it is.

And there is the knob of James' shoulder.  There are three or four inches of flesh ending abruptly in a metal cap.  There is a port that looks like something from Iron Man's armor, which maybe it is.  The lights inside are dimmed, like it's been set to sleep mode.  There are scars above the port and the cap - deep, jagged looking scars that two years on hardly look much worse than the ones on the rest of him.  

Sam swallows.  His tongue feels thick in his mouth.  Tony Stark has James' stump in one hand and is poking a tiny screwdriver into the port, narrating what he's doing to Dr. Diallo.  "Connection looked a little sluggish," he says, "let's see what we can do."  And, "Think we got a loose chip here but that's probably due for an upgrade anyway."  The screwdriver's replaced by a set of tweezers and the chip is pulled out of the port, unceremoniously.  James holding still, letting Stark position his stump for best effect.

It is true - what Sam had told James.  He's seen a lot worse.  He's been up to his elbows in burst intestines, ruptured abscesses, shit that only left him and Riley ragging each other later about who smelled worse.  His internship's at a VA center out in Queens - the same kind of place Sam's grandpa played bingo at, where Sam had spent time himself before moving up to New York - and he's seen a few guys there missing limbs, making do with the normal sort of prosthetic or no prosthetic at all if they can't afford it.  So yeah, he's seen worse.  

_Get it together, Wilson._

Stark and Dr. Diallo have moved away from James, who's perched on the edge of his stool and watching them start tuning up the arm or whatever, his shoulders slumped. Behind Sam, there's the sound of a sheet being snapped over the massage table, the barely there whisper of Miles' hands smoothing the fabric out.

"James," Sam says, quiet.  No response.  "Bucky," he says, a little louder.

Blue eyes flicker towards him, expressionless.  "Hell of a farmer's tan you got there," Sam tells him, nodding with his chin.  "All this scientific wonder and they can't keep you from looking like raw chicken?"

James, miracle of all miracles, snorts.  "Rude," he says, soft.  He holds out his hand, and Sam takes it, squeezing their fingers together.  

Miles works James over for almost an hour while Dr Diallo and Stark work on the prosthetic. He uses a set of shining silver knives instead of his hands, which he lets James examine before he's guided down on the massage table, propped on his right side.  Sam sticks close, trying to tune out Stark and Dr. Diallo on the other side of the room, watches bruises flower all over that raw, sunless skin.

"That looks gross as hell," Sam comments, a few minutes in.  It's not just bruises, but violent pinpricks of blood welling up under the skin.  Briefly, Sam wonders what it would look like on his own body, how bad the damage would show.

"Efficient, though," Miles grunts.  "He's a mess of fascial adhesions under the skin.  Connective tissue, I mean.  What I'm doing is scraping them into behaving like they should.  Like combing knots out of your hair."

"So, have you been to the Stark Fair yet?" Stark says, quiet and casual over the hum of their machines.

"I live in Bergen County," Dr. Diallo says, and something on the table sparks.

"Does it hurt?" Sam asks, his eyes on James' face, which is slack and completely, utterly blank.  

"It's not a day at the spa," Miles says, and shrugs one shoulder.  "But he can take it."  No reaction from James; he's completely checked out.  Miles might as well be massaging a dead body, except for how bruised and bloody James looks under his hands.  Sam backs off, sits down on the couch, stares back out the window towards the city and the water and the open sweep of space, and after a while he starts to feels better.

At least, good enough to smile at James when Miles helps him to sit up, looking groggy and a little sweaty.  "You okay?" Miles asks, before Sam has a chance to, and James nods, winces, shakes his head.

"Hurts," he says, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes.  What's left of his other arm moves too; used to sending out signals to the prosthetic, Sam can only guess.  

Miles pats his shoulder, and looks over at Sam, still sitting over on the couch with his hands tucked between his knees.  His eyes soften.  "Wanna help me out with an ice pack?"

Sam steps up gladly, giving Miles a brief nod of thanks.  Holds the bag against the worst of the bruises, careful not to stay too long on any one spot.  After a moment, James butts his head into Sam's ribs, his hair falling forward into his face.  Sam rubs a hand over his other shoulder, checking in, and James turns his face into Sam's stomach, shakes his head.  

"You guys gonna cab it back to Brooklyn?" Miles asks.  He's giving them some space, wiping his tools down and packing them up at a side table.

"Yeah," Sam says, looking down at the crown of James' shaggy head.  "Yeah, I don't think we're up for the subway."

"Okay," Miles says, "I'm gonna send you home with a few more of the ice packs.  You'll want to ice the red areas off and on for the next few hours.  Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off - no more or you could damage the tissue."

"Yeah, I know," Sam says, absently, "I'm a paramedic."

Stark's face pops up over the curved surface of the forearm, eyes cartoonishly magnified behind his goggles.  "EXO-7," he says, triumphant, and Sam's stomach clenches.  James makes a soft, questioning sound, muffled by Sam's shirt.

"What's that?" Sam says, diffidently.

Stark pushes back from his work table, pulling off the goggles in the same motion.  "The Falcon program," he says, squinting down at James' prosthetic.  He picks up a can of compressed air, starts blowing carefully between each joint.  "That's where I know you from.  Must've seen your file, during the proposal process.  I designed the retraction mechanism personally, you know."  

He looks at Dr Diallo.  Standing up, he's close enough to her height to look her in the eye.  "We're ready to reattach."

James sighs, and presses his forehead hard into Sam's belly, for just a moment.  He looks more clear when he shifts back, though, and he's steady on his feet.  Sam follows him over to the table, sticks his hands back in his pockets so he feels less like he's hovering.  James' hand curls on his own thigh, picking aimlessly at a loose thread on his shorts.  

"So how did they handle?  Perfectly, I assume, but it never hurts to ask.  Never got to take one up myself, but of course you know I have other transport," Stark says, as he hefts the prosthetic up into both arms, angling it towards its holster.  James watches him do it through narrowed eyes, like he thinks Stark will drop it.  Sam can dig it; he feels a little itchy himself, with Stark handling the damn thing so casually.

"Don't know what you're talking about," Sam answers.  "You must be thinking of someone else."

Stark actually winks at him.  "Lean forward," Dr Diallo says to James.  The prosthetic makes a series of clicking sounds as it connects to the port.  The angry, bloodied-looking skin of James' shoulder is hidden away under metal plates.  Both Dr Diallo and Stark get to work, Dr Diallo at James' shoulder and Stark at the open panel on James' bicep.  James' hand tightens on his knee, but he looks up at Sam with an almost bored expression, that endless patience Sam remembers from being on military time.  Sam smiles at him, and James smiles back, that little side curl of his mouth that makes Sam's heart kick double quick.

"Well, either way, Staff Sergeant Definitely Not a Falcon," Stark says, casually, "you'll be glad to hear the program's being decommissioned."

Sam rocks on his heels, thrown abruptly out of the moment.  "What?  Why?"

"Don't need it anymore," Stark says, and shrugs again.  "Stark Industries is able to provide highly efficient, unmanned med drones to do the same work with zero human exposure.  Besides, it was a terrible program; the fatality rate would have been unacceptable for infantry.  Turns out if you strap on a flying suit, even the most highly trained soldiers drop 30 IQ points and start thinking they're Captain America.  We lost six, ten users that way - guys trying to earn extra medals."

For a moment, Sam is so angry that it's like he's ceased to exist.  He's blotted out by his anger, made speechless by it.  He's so angry he can't find a response even in his head; his thoughts bump up and over each other, just a useless hissing buzz between his ears.  Stark's bent over James, a soldering iron in one hand, his eyes clear and unclouded, not even looking at Sam.

He sees himself, very clearly, grabbing Stark by the front of his stupid tee shirt, and hitting him over and over.

Then, just as clearly, being escorted out of the building.  Being arrested.  The end of cushy physical therapy and a cutting edge prosthesis.  

He feels a touch on his arm, and he looks down.  It's James, his thumb stroking over the soft underside of Sam's wrist, frowning a little.  Sam struggles to say something, anything, at least nod and say he's okay, he'll be okay if he just has a minute to get his shit together, but nothing comes out.  James' eyes widen, his thumb digging into Sam's skin just a little.  

It's enough - that edge of discomfort, the little grind of tendons in his wrist, and the haze clears enough for him to focus on those pale eyes, searching his face.

So he's looking down at James when it happens, when the prosthetic reconnects - sees his eyes go big and empty looking, like for a moment he's not in his body at all.  Then he winces and rolls his shoulder out a couple times, and Sam lets out the breath he didn't realize he was holding.

"Besides," Stark says, his voice going soft.  He sets his tools down, arranging them neatly in a line on the table.  "War is over, if we want it.  That's the whole point of the Iron Man program, you know - to end the need for sacrifice.  We send drones to save lives and aid the injured, and make sure no more of our soldiers come home needing these babies -"

He presses the panel closed and pats it, almost absently.

" - or don't come home at all.  There's been enough sacrifice."

He leans back, his attention turning to James.  He smiles, warm and sincere.  "A car home's on me," he says.  "Jarvis will let the front desk know."

There's a last discussion that Sam listens to, in a daze - James' balance of medications, his next appointments - and then they're back out at the elevators, James hitting the down button with one silver finger.  They wait for it without speaking.  When the doors open they step in without looking at each other, James rolling his shoulder every minute or so.  Sam doesn't really feel it when the elevator starts moving, only just the faintest drop in his stomach. 

He stares blindly up at the top of the elevator doors.  There aren't any numbers, nothing to look at, but the habit's there, like looking at his wrist when someone asks the time.  

"I fuckin hate that guy," James says, into the silence, and Sam starts laughing.  He rubs a hand over his chest, which feels bruised and sore, and lets James take hold of the other one and lace their fingers together.

"Yeah," he says.  "Me too."

 

-

 

Later, in bed, sweaty and wrapped around each other, he runs his fingers over each ridge of the prosthetic, traces each of James' fingertips, the palm of his hand.  James lets him do it, his heart a steady beat against Sam's, breathing slow and even.  

"I had no idea it was like that for you," Sam says, hushed.  The room is dark, just little diamonds of light through the old stained glass windows, blue and red and yellow patterns across James' sheets.  Outside it's quiet, not even the sound of cars or far off music, like they're all alone in Brooklyn.

"It's not so bad."  James' voice is soft, slurred sounding in Sam's ear.  He'd been dozing, probably - he hadn't said much on the ride home, and spent the rest of the night with his head on Sam's shoulder while they watched dumb movie after dumb movie, smoking joint after joint.  He laughs a little, just a faint rumble against Sam's neck.  "A lot better than it used to be.  There's five guys in the trial now, mostly for legs, but mine was the first one.  I guess the arm was something Stark dug up in the company archives from when they weren't making weapons, but no one ever tested it before - they worked all the bugs out on me.  It still, you know, it hurts, but we did, mmmm, four surgeries and it got a lot better after the last one.  Mostly just tune ups, now."

Sam presses a kiss to his forehead, blind.  He can't even remember what movies they'd watched, lost in his own haze of anger and helplessness, thinking of all the shit he wishes he could have said to Stark, thinking about the way they'd moved James around, hardly even talking to him, like he wasn't even a person.

He wishes he could have been there, before.  For when it was bad.  He could have helped.  "No wonder you crawled into a hole and never came out," he murmurs, into James' hair.

James' eyes open, and he frowns, but in the dark Sam doesn't see it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The massage technique being used on James is called the [Graston technique](http://www.grastontechnique.com/). Huge, huge thanks to [Stele3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/stele3/pseuds/stele3) for walking me in depth through this treatment process, as well as the physical [strain on Bucky's body](http://stele3.tumblr.com/post/99613472580/the-body-of-bucky-barnes-a-massage-therapists) that his body would be dealing with after a traumatic injury and a prosthetic arm.


	7. Chapter 7

  

The ride from Brooklyn to northern Virginia is four and a half, maybe five hours, and James drives the whole way down.  They’re in a rental car instead of Steve’s rusty death trap, James’ treat: he’d taken care of it on his phone, sitting silently on Lou’s couch while she and Sam argued about the Amtrak schedule.

“It’s no big deal.  All that time on a train each way is fuckin nuts,” he said later, when Sam had awkwardly offered to split the cost, inwardly flinching over what that would do to his bank balance.  He’d smiled, a little shy, and added, “besides, you know I still get benefits, and I don’t pay for much besides weed and the subway.  I’d like to, Sam.”

Sam had kissed his face, letting that be an answer, and told him, “Hey, speaking of, you can’t smoke weed at my parents’ house, they are not chill with it.”  

The rental car is nice, soft leather seats, and after a summer of rattling around in Steve’s car it feels smooth and easy as they roar down the New Jersey turnpike, like they’re not even moving at all.  Sam dozes for a lot of it; he’d slept bad for the last few nights and it feels almost like self-defense against the murky, gassy smell of north Jersey.  It mixes with the smell of James’ cigarettes, held conscientiously out the open window, leaching into the feel of the sun on Sam’s face until he feels wrapped up in some late summer daydream.

Lou spells him in the front seat while they’re about fifty miles out of Philly, when they stop for gas and McDonalds, and back in the car Sam settles down for a real nap.  He can fit with his knees up and his feet up on the seat, not the worst place in the world he's ever slept.  He'd lost the ability to nap wherever, whenever almost as soon as he touched down stateside and he misses it, envious of the way James can still drop off if he's sitting anywhere for more than a minute.  But he's tired, in a way that's deep enough to almost take the edge off the gnawing anxiety in his stomach, and it's only a few miles before he's pulled under.

He wakes up some time later, surfacing from some formless, shapeless dream.  His heart's pounding, but he can't remember why; his neck aches a little even though he's got James' jacket pushed under it, some half remembered expectation from sleeping in bumpy convoys. There's sweat prickling on the back of his neck, his chest, his upper lip.  He breathes in: cigarettes, leather, deodorant, and the piney, warm smell of James himself, all saturated in the jacket under his head.  He's in a car.  He's in the United States.  The year is 2013.  

"Traffic's not so bad," Lou says in the front seat, making conversation, and James grunts.  Sam breathes steady, shifts a little as cover just in case he made noise waking up, settles back onto his side with one hand curled under his face.  There's a pause, not too uncomfortable, where the only sound is highway noises and the muted thump of the radio, too soft to make out.

"Want a cigarette?" James asks.

"Oh yes please," Lou says fervently, and makes for the pack sitting on the dashboard.  There's a rustling sound as James digs a lighter out of his pocket, passes it over. 

The lighter clicks.  The faint crackle of the cigarette paper, starting to burn.  Lou's happy inhale, and the hum of the window as she rolls it down.  Sam keeps his eyes shut, drifts a little, comes back when James asks, wry, "I won't get in trouble for this later, will I?"

There's a rustle as Lou shifts in her seat.  Sam cracks an eye open, smiles a little to see Lou in profile, turning a disbelieving eye on James.  "I am a grown ass woman, James Barnes," she tells him, and James giggles, faint and unseen in the other seat.

"Sorry, I just," he says, "I wanna make a good impression.  Sam hasn't told me much about - it's been awhile since I met anyone's folks, you know?"

"Well, don't take it out on me," Lou says severely, but Sam can see her smiling.  

"Any pro tips?" James says.  The turn signal clicks on, just the slightest change in gravity as James shifts lanes.

"No money talk; Dad thinks it's rude.  Politics are delicate," Lou says.  "I think you'll be fine though, you seem like you got good home training."

"Aw, thanks," James says, "my ma'll be glad to hear you think that."

There's another pause.  It's quiet in the car, over the highway noise, and Sam's dozing off again when James asks, "What?  I got a bug on my face or something?"

Sam opens one eye, just a slit, but Lou's looking away from James now, and all he can see is the back of her head.  She's left handed, holding the cigarette across her body towards the window; the fingers of her right hand are wrapped around her other arm.  Her fingernails gleam, glossy and pink in the sunlight.

"Oh, just," she says, "It's funny - you know, I was trying to think about the last time Sam was serious about someone and, I don't know, I have no idea.  The last person he brought home was - his prom date, I think.  But I don't even remember him dating anyone else, since then."

"Wow," James says, but Sam can't read much of his tone, without being able to see his face.  Sam watches him hold a hand up, take the pack of cigarettes back from Lou.  

"I'm just mad at myself that I don't know these things," Lou says, still turned away.  Sam closes his eyes, takes deep slow breaths.  "He's my brother.  We're not so far apart in age that I have an excuse not to know this stuff about him."

"He was away for a long time," James says, soft.  "You got a chance now, don't you?  I mean, you guys live together, you got lots of chances to talk now."

"Yeah, until he moves in with you," Lou says, and when she turns back Sam sees her grin, bright and quick.  James laughs, sounding embarrassed, and doesn't say anything.  Which is okay, he doesn't even know what he'd want James to say about that.  They've never talked about the future, about next steps.  Anyway, Lou doesn't seem to expect an answer, or maybe James’ answer is in the way they're looking at each other, hidden from Sam's view.

"Brooklyn's been good for him," Lou says, and laughs.  "You've been good for him."

James is quiet for a moment.  "You think?" he asks.

Silence; maybe a nod.  Maybe another shared smile.  Out the windows above his head, he sees highway signs rush by.  They're getting close.

"He's been good for me," James says.  "Good to me.  I've never met anyone like him.  He's just -"

"Yeah," Lou says.  "Sam's a good man."

"He's the best," James says, like he means it.  And it's hard for Sam not to sit up and ruin the moment, do something to stop this hot, bruised feeling in his chest.  Lou must feel the same, because she leans over and bumps her shoulder into James', rubbing the back of her knuckles over his arm.  He leans into her, and then she laughs a little and pulls away, back to her side of the car.  

"You'll be fine," she tells him.  "They'll see how much you guys love each other and that'll be the only thing that matters.  I talked to them last week and they're - it was weird for them, Sam turning, you know, whatever, but they're fine and they're gonna love you.  Okay?"

"Okay?" James says, sounding a little mystified, and oh god Lou said the L-word, and it's definitely time that Sam wakes up for real.

He makes a little show of it, stretching and yawning, and catches James' eyes in the rear view mirror.  He looks grateful for the rescue.  "Hey, sleepyhead," James says.  "You have a good nap?"

Sam braces his elbows on the front seats, leans in between them.  Not really, but laying down and closing his eyes was almost as good as really sleeping.  "How much longer we got?" he asks.  

"Officially less than an hour," James answers.  "You guys good on bathroom breaks?  Can we power through?"

"Bathroom break," Lou says, decisively.  "I need to freshen up.  Don't wanna roll out of the car looking like you bums."

"We don't look like bums," James objects.

"Maybe you don't," Lou says, eyeing James in a way that makes Sam wanna reach out and tug hard on her curls, "but Sasquatch here needs a haircut." She reaches back, touches her long nails to Sam's temple.  "Momma's gonna be all over those edges," she tells him.  

Sam can feel James cast an uncertain glance over him.  "You look fine," he says, and Lou gives Sam a look, which Sam returns as a shrug.

"How you doin up there?" he asks James.  "You want a break from driving?"

"I'm good," James says, with a crooked grin.  He doesn't even use the bathroom when they stop, fifteen minutes later; he stays by the car, head bent over his phone, absently stretching his legs.  He's still texting when Sam gets back from the bathroom.  

"How's Steve?" Sam asks.  "You guys gonna survive a weekend without each other?"  He puts his hands in his pockets instead of around James' waist, his heart still hot and light.   _He's the best_ , James had said.   _He's been good for me._

"He'll be fine," James says, dismissively.  "Hey, any last minute tips for making your folks love me?  They, uh, they know about this, right?"  He holds up his prosthetic hand, wiggles his fingers.  They glint in the sunlight, and he tugs the sleeve of his shirt back down over his hand, almost reflexively.  

"Nah, I left that out," Sam says.  "Why, is it important?"

James grins, reaches out a hand and hauls Sam in close, holds him there.

They do know, of course; he'd told them when he'd called to say he was dating someone - that that someone was a veteran and from Brooklyn and related to _the_ Bucky Barnes - like those parts would even matter past _his name is James_.  He knows his mom remembers - she'd called to ask him a few days ago if they needed to make any special accommodations for _your friend's disability_ , in the same tone she would've used to ask if James were vegan.

James is looking at him, up through his eyelashes.  He looks a little rumpled by the hours in the car, a little tired, but his eyes are so pale it's like Sam can see right through them, and his mouth looks soft and pink.  He's waiting for Sam to say something like he might wait for his SO to tell him what to do, where to go, when to sleep - open and given over to it.  

So Sam kisses him.  It’s not the kind of kiss that’s meant to start anything, to offer more, but that’s what it becomes anyway: the soft exhale of air between them, the warmth of James' body against his own.  It goes on and on, and Sam thinks maybe he should back away, they should probably at least get in the car or something, but he can't bring himself to do it.  

Eventually James unclenches a little and rests both hands on Sam’s hips.  Curls his fingers under Sam's belt, pulling it tight, pulling them flush together.  Sam lets him do it, lets James lean back a little, give the car some of their weight.  He feels the flicker of James’ tongue as he licks his lips.  He can feel the press of James' cock, the tilt of his hips as he grinds - slowly - just a little - against Sam's thigh.

"Gross," Lou says from behind them, heartfelt.  "You guys are gonna get arrested."

James laughs, a little puff of air against Sam's face.  "Don't you tease me if you got some kinda rule against fucking at your parents' house," he whispers.

"I'm gonna gag you with your own shorts, then eat you out until you're begging me to slip my cock in you," Sam whispers back.  "You're gonna come so hard you forget your own name."

James bursts out laughing at that, his face flushing an immediate, fascinating red.  He stuffs his prosthetic hand in his mouth, biting down hard on two silver knuckles.  "What the fuck," he mutters, as Sam grins at him and steps away towards the passenger door.  "Are you _trying_ to make me come in my pants?"

"Yeah," Sam says seriously, after checking to make sure Lou didn't hear that, "but no more breaks, we gotta get on the road.  Guess you'd just have to drive like that."

James groans, heartfelt and mostly muffled by his hand, and when he climbs back into the car he slams the door with a little more force than necessary.  Probably lucky he didn't actually rip the door off, considering he did it with his left hand.  Sam follows suit, keeping his head down and eyes on the car.  Maybe Lou hadn't heard what James said, but they'd attracted attention regardless; he'd caught a couple people staring at them from the rest stop, from the cars around them.  An old white lady had made eye contact and shaken her head, her mouth pinched up tight around the sourness of the rest of her face.  Guess they weren't in Oz anymore.

 

-

 

Sam's heart kicks back up again as they're pulling into the driveway.  The front curtains twitch; Mom's waiting at the window, probably watching through the lace until they've got their gear out of the car.  The front door opens up as they're making their way up the path, and there she is, beaming to beat the band.  Lou goes straight into her arms, and there's a lot of noise and excitement, and then it's Sam's turn for a hug, all the air squeezing out his lungs, "It's so good to see you, baby," and "let's get you a haircut while you're here, we'll go over to Barry's shop, he'll be happy to see you," and then -

"Momma, this is James," Sam says.

James had hung back, or maybe he'd stepped back down the front path towards the car, like he was gonna make a run for it.  Sam catches only a glimpse - of sheer terror, maybe, his eyebrows shooting up and his lips curling over his teeth as he sucks in a breath - before he smiles, huge and wide, so big his eyes crinkle with it, and he says in a rush, "It's so nice to meet you, ma'am, Mrs Wilson, I've heard so much about you, what a lovely home you have."

She smiles, and holds out a hand.  "It's nice to meet you too, James," she says, "I'm Sabrina."

They'd timed the trip down to land them in Reston an hour or so before dinner, so after they troop upstairs to put their bags away (Sam had been afraid up til the last minute that James would be sleeping in the den instead of with Sam, like they'd done to Lou and her boyfriends until she was twenty five), they regroup on the back patio with Dad, and break into one of the bottles of wine James had brought.

It's cooler in the evenings these days, and Sam's grateful for it, that they're not drowning in swampy humidity.  The sun's moseying down towards the horizon and there are fireflies dotting the tree line at the back of the property.  The back door's wide open but for the screen door, and Marvin's on the speakers.  Lou's squished in on the loveseat with James and Sam, leaving the two chairs for Mom and Dad, who are trying not to be too obvious about examining James.

They’ve seen James before, they knew what he looked like - mostly from Lou’s Facebook - and he’s got on a long sleeved shirt, but Dad’s on his left side and when he hands James a wine glass, James takes it with his prosthetic hand.  

“James, you grew up in Brooklyn, is that right?” Mom asks, once traffic and the weather have been duly discussed.  “What do your parents do?”

“My mother’s a hairdresser,” James says, his smile a bit of a wince.  “It’s just her and my sister and me.  My sister’s a student at Hunter, same as Sam - she’s undergrad, though.”

“Oh?” Mom says.  “What’s her major?”

“Jewish Studies,” James says, shrugging.  His pocket buzzes, thigh pressed up against Sam's.  It buzzes again only a moment later, and then a third time.   “I don’t know what she wants to do with it; we’d told her to pick a trade or something, but she’s as stubborn as the rest of us, I guess.”

“I didn’t know your family was that religious,” Sam says, which is true, but most of his conversations with Esther have been at family dinners, while Sam tries to pretend that he doesn’t know what Hannah’s children all look like naked or in pasties.

“We’re not,” James says, and laughs.  “We don’t even wait for family members to die off before we’re naming kids after ‘em.  Nah, it was when I was -”

He hesitates, covers it by taking the smallest possible sip of his wine, his eyes sliding over in Sam’s direction just a for a moment.  “When I was missing, my aunt started taking her to temple, for support.  Guess it took - the philosophy part of it, I mean, we don’t keep kosher or anything.  But it’s, uh, it’s been nice learning about our history through her.  And you wouldn’t believe how many people’ve written a thesis on Bucky Barnes’ ‘secret’ Jewish ancestry or something, so we’ve learned a lot about where our family came from in particular.”

His phone buzzes again, still audible over the music and the soft whir of his prosthetic going through some kind of diagnostic cycle.  Sam sneaks a hand over to James’ waist, gives him a little pinch right above the waistband of his jeans.  James glances over, a little curious, and then Dad says, “That must’ve been hard on your family, when you were missing.”

James freezes, this time for real.  “They’re very close,” Sam answers when he doesn’t, and presses his leg up against James’.  On James’ other side, he can feel Lou doing the same.  James takes another sip of wine, rolls his left shoulder.

“Yes sir.  David, I mean,” he says, and it surprises Sam a little, how even he sounds.  “Actually, they were told I’d been killed.  In a training accident.  Standard policy, the type of operation I was leading.  It was a, you know, it was a big shock for everyone when I turned up again.”

He smiles then, big and easy, before anyone else can say anything, and says, “It was a long time ago now, though.  They’re real glad to have me home for good.  I’m sure you guys are glad to have Sam back too, right?”

Like that, the moment passes.  James doesn’t say much more, just sits and smiles and listens to Sam's folks talk.  Soon enough dinner’s about ready: Sam go set the table, oh James you sit down honey, Louise can help with the roast.  When they sit down, James bows his head along with Sam’s family, his left hand cool in Sam’s own.  Sam rubs his thumb over his palm, checking in, and almost gets pinched by two of the thumb plates as James returns the gesture.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty,” Dad says, his voice soft.  “We thank you for the food, and for the company we enjoy it with.  We ask a special blessing tonight for our veterans and their families.  We thank you, as we thank them, for their sacrifices - and ask you to give them peace beyond the peace they’ve fought to secure.  Please protect the men and women who are currently serving, and reward with joy those who have served and come home.”

“Amen,” Lou murmurs.

“We welcome James into our home, and offer you our gratitude that Sam has made a friend to help him through this time in his life,” Dad says, and his fingers tighten around Sam’s.  “In Jesus’s name we pray, amen.”

“Amen,” Sam murmurs, a soft echo.

There’s a pause where everyone starts filling their plates - “This is delicious, Mrs Wilson,” and “Can you pass the pepper, Sam?” - and Sam takes a deep breath, nudges his knee into James’s under the table, and digs in.

 

-

 

Sam volunteers for dish duty, and stands shoulder to shoulder with his mother in the kitchen, a dishrag in her hand, ready to dry.  

"James and your Dad are getting along well," she observes, after they get through the first pile together.  Sam looks out the kitchen window towards the patio, where Dad’s cutting a cigar for James, a lit one already in Lou’s glittering hands.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and can’t help but smile a little.  Dad’s a soft touch, always has been, but it’s nice either way.  He hears the tone in her voice though, loud and clear, so when he asks, "So, do you like him?" he does it looking down at the sink instead of over at her.

She doesn't say anything for a long moment.  He scrubs at a bit of crusted on food with a fingernail, rubs his thumb over it hard when it doesn't come off.  He can feel his heartbeat in the tips of his fingers.  "He's very handsome," Mom says, eventually, "and he has nice manners. Seems like he cares about you a lot.  I feel sorry for what happened to him."

He hands her the plate to dry, wordlessly, and takes another from the pile.  "Do you _like_ him?" he asks, and she sighs.

"I just don't wanna see my baby get hurt," she says, and at that Sam stops scrubbing at the plate and looks over at her.

"You think James is gonna hurt me?" he asks.  

Her mouth twists.  She looks back out the window, where Lou and Dad are laughing about something, a sort of mystified grin on James' face as he glances between them.  Lou reaches over, clinks her beer bottle against James', and they both drink deep.

"I think it's a hard road you're choosing, Sammy," she says.  “I know these days people say they're born that way and I believe that, but it doesn't mean it's not a hard road.  I don't want to see you get hurt any more than you already have."

Sam sets down the dish he's washing.  It clinks softly against the silverware in the sink.  He turns off the tap, leans his hip against the sink so he can face his mother.  

She watches him do all of this with one eyebrow raised, her arms crossing loose over her chest.  The dishrag twitches in one hand.  "Don't give me that look, Samuel," she says, but she mostly sounds tired.  "People are gonna judge you.  People could try and _hurt_ you.  And what's gonna happen when you leave New York?  The rest of the country isn't as accepting."

"I think James and I could handle a couple dumb rednecks, anyone tries to start something," Sam says, and gets flicked with the dishrag for his tone.  

"You know that's not what I'm saying," she says, irritated.  "It's hard enough being black in this country, being gay too - "

She turns away, adds stiffly, "You can't blame your momma for being scared for you.  That's my _job_."

After four deep breaths, he realizes that he doesn't.  Couldn't.  He takes two more, tries to squeeze the stone out of his throat, the hurt out of his stomach.  It doesn't work, but he opens his arms anyway and lets his mother step into them, smiling.  He focuses on it - being held by her.  The strength in her arms, the softness of the rest of her.  He can touch his chin to the top her head, same as he can do to Lou.  There were times out in the desert that he would've given anything to be held by his mother, just for a minute.  He should be grateful he can do it now.  

"My baby boy," she says softly, a little muffled.  

"I know, momma," he says, and kisses the top of her head.  She gives him a final squeeze and steps back, takes his face in her hands.  

“I love you,” she says.  “You know that, don’t you, Sam?  And this - this will never change how much I love you.  I just hoped I could worry about you a little less, once we finally got you back.”

“Hey,” Sam says, and actually laughs at that, “what’re you talking about?  First off, no one’s _shot_ at me lately.  Not even in _Brooklyn_.  And -”

“When you first came home,” she says, and he stops talking abruptly.  She sighs, and pats his cheek, releasing him.

“Come on,” he says, soft.  “That’s all over and done with.”

She gestures him back to the dishes.  “Ever since you were a baby, you never wanted to be any trouble to anyone,” she says, and wipes the rag over a baking dish she'd already dried.  “You’d take care of your own booboos and your own heartbreak, and that didn’t change once you were grown.  I know you don’t like being fussed over, but it scared me so bad to see you that way.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, watching the water run over his hands.  He picks up some silverware, just for something to hold onto.  “I didn’t mean to - I never wanted to scare you, momma.”

“I am glad you have someone who understands about Riley,” she says, and Sam’s heart gives him a squeeze.  It’s worse when he looks over at her, and sees her looking up at him pensively.

“You and Riley,” she says, and he says, “oh no, no no, it wasn’t like that,” because it's true, it was never like that between them, not exactly.   

She nods, satisfied.  "You know your Uncle always talked a lot of bullshit about men in the military," she says, and reaches out for the bundle of silverware he’s cleaned without noticing.  They’re almost done, and then - dessert, maybe, there’s a little cakebox from the bakery he likes, hidden behind the coffee maker.  

"Let's go join your Dad," she says, when the last dish has been dried.  

"Okay," Sam says.  "I'll grab an extra chair from the dining room."

She gives him a hug, though, before they go.  "Happy birthday, momma," Sam says, when it's over, and bends to kiss her cheek.

"Thank you, Sammy," she says, beaming.  "It's the best present I can ask for, to have my kids at home."

 

-

 

"Hey there, soldier," comes a voice from behind him.

Sam startles badly - one foot slipping down into the water, one hand digging hard into the unyielding concrete.  “Oh shit, sorry,” James says, sitting down next to Sam.  Sam hadn’t heard him coming at all, lost in the blue green glitter of the pool lights and the sound of crickets in the darkness.

"Couldn't find you upstairs," James says, soft.  "Your folks went to bed.  Lou's going out, gonna go see some of her friends."

"Sorry," Sam says.  His heart's still hammering in his chest and he takes a deep breath, tries not to make it too obvious.  "I needed some air.  Sorry I left you alone with them.  I hope it wasn't too bad."

“ _Awful_ ,” James tells him, and Sam’s head jerks up.  But all that James says is, “Your dad asked me how I feel about children.  Says he’s almost given up on Lou giving him any grandbabies.”

"Oh Lord Jesus," Sam says, fervently, and James laughs.  

"Don't worry," he says, bumping his shoulder into Sam's.  "I threw 'em off the scent."

"I'm too afraid to ask," Sam mumbles, and James flops backwards, wincing when more of his back hits the concrete rim of the pool than the grass around it.  A second later his hips push up and he's rummaging in his pockets, surfacing with a pack of cigarettes.  

“Your old room is like, twice the size of mine.  Four times the size of Steve’s," James says, a little muffled as he lights his cigarette.  It sounds like teasing but he’d seen James’ eyes go kinda round when they pulled up the driveway and he got look at the house.  It’s a lot compared to Brooklyn, Sam guesses, even if the Barnes could probably sell their rundown brownstone for twice what the Wilsons’ house is worth.  “I didn’t know you guys were so Brady Bunch."  

“Brady Bunch,” Sam huffs.  “You’ve never watched any black shows, have you.”  

James rolls his eyes heavenward, pretends to think about it.  "Didn't have a TV growing up," he says, blowing out smoke.  "If it helps I never saw any of Seinfeld either.  Don't tell anyone that, they might revoke my New Yorker card."

Something buzzes.  James’ hips lift again, come up with his phone this time.  Taps out a short text with his right hand, stuffs it away.  He rolls his head to look at Sam, who’s been silent throughout the whole process.  "Y’okay?" he asks.  "You're awful quiet."

"Yeah," Sam says.  Adds, helplessly, "Hey, my mom likes you."  James whole face crinkles up at that, his smile sweet and blinding.  And a little lopsided.  And -

"Are you drunk?" Sam asks, astonished.  James grins up at him, his mouth slightly open, his teeth gleaming in the flickering light.  

"I had a couple beers with your dad," he says, more defensively than Sam's expecting, from the dumb look on his face.  A couple beers plus two glasses of wine with dinner plus his usual meds regime, _Jesus_.  Sam should've been watching.  He should have said something, he hadn't even been thinking about it.

"Is that _safe?_ " Sam asks.  He leans over, sniffs surreptitiously, reaches towards James to check his pupils.

James bats him away with the hand holding the cigarette.  He doesn't burn Sam, but it's close enough that Sam yanks backwards, startled.  They glare at each other.  "What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?" Sam says.  

"I couldn't get stoned," James says, a little sullen.  Now that Sam's listening he can hear the blurriness of James' speech, and he blows out an angry breath.

"So you need to get hammered around my parents?  What if you overdose?" Sam asks.  He had a few glasses of wine with dinner too but he doesn't drink that often, could he drive James to the hospital if they need to go?  He feels awake all over now.  "Lemme take a look at you, come on."

"I'm _fine_ ," James says - like he'd know, the state he's in.  He's frowning at Sam.  "I'm not gonna overdose.  I know my own meds schedule, I'll be fine."

"It doesn't _work like that_ ," Sam grits out.

"Well you told me I couldn't get stoned," James hisses back, and shoves himself up off the ground.  

"Fine," Sam says, and turns away.  "Drive yourself to the fucking hospital.  To fucking rehab too, apparently."

"What?  Hey," James says, his expression shifting.  "No, it's not like that.  Hey, it's not like that.  I was in a lot of pain and I didn't wanna be rude to your folks and then it was just nice to have a fuckin beer again, you know how _long_ it's been since I had a fuckin beer?"

Sam looks at him.  James sits back down, lets him look.  Lets him dig into his pocket for his phone, turn on the flashlight and shine it into his eyes to check his pupils.  "Why were you in pain?" Sam asks, suspiciously, flipping the light off.  James looks at him like he's grown an extra head, everything exaggerated with drink.  

"You said I couldn't smoke at your parents' house," he says, and rolls his shoulder out.  He drags a hand through his hair, finds a piece of grass in it and flicks it away.  "I had an edible before we left Brooklyn and it lasted me okay, but then I forgot to take another one before my shoulder started hurting.  But by then I’d had wine and it was just nice, so I thought, gotta get through dinner, it won’t be too bad, eat another edible before you go to sleep.  But then your dad said _cigars_ , and _beer_ , so I don’t know, now we’re here.  I’m a big guy, it takes more than a couple'a beers to get me drunk.  And I had a bunch of water.  Sam, I did, I drank water.  I’ll be _fine_.”

The rhythm of his accent turns everything sloppy, tough to follow: _so I tought, gotta get tru dinna, eat anadda eddibal.  I hadda buncha wadda, Sam._  “But why were you in pain?” Sam asks again, ignoring all of that.  James shifts his weight back onto his palms, head tilting to one side.  

“I’m always in pain,” he says, bewildered, and holds up his prosthetic hand, touches silver fingertips to where the shoulder plates meet his skin, under his clothing.  

And - yeah, it slots neatly into place in Sam’s head.  The type of injuries James took, the physical therapy, the surgeries.  Nerve damage, phantom sensation.  The weight of the arm, enough to bend his spine out of place.  Whatever implants the arm itself attaches to, connecting into bone and tissue.  The nights Sam’s woken up in cold sweats and been surprised and grateful James was able to sleep through Sam thrashing around.  The stress Sam feels every time he has to go to Midtown, where James works every day, surrounded by noise and chaos.  “You never told me,” Sam says, and James shrugs.  

“Yeah, well,” he says.  “You never told me you were closeted to your folks.”

“I,” Sam says, and stops, because he wasn’t, not really, and anyway that’s not the _point_.  “That’s not what we’re talking about,” he says.

“No?  Cuz I’m getting the impression they _just_ found out you’re queer,” James says, eyebrows arched.  “You just on the down low your whole life or something?”

“The hell would you even know about that,” Sam growls, but he's just met with another diffident shrug.  

"I fucked black guys before, I know the deal," he says, a look on his face like he knows it's a fucked up thing to say.  "Your family too churchy or something?  Maybe your, uh, your country club buddies aren't into queers, yeah?"

If Sam wasn't so angry he'd laugh at the absurdity of it.  Maybe grab James by the shoulders and shake him, try to figure out _that_ wild stab in the dark.  But he's pissed, and he's a little drunk, and he's been going over everything his mom said for hours, over and over, like pressing down on a bruise, so what comes out is, "Not all of us grew up in some magical wonderland, where your girlfriend can decide to be your boyfriend one day and everything's just _fine_."

James' eyes widen, and then he's scowling, furious.  "Don't talk about him like that," he says.  "Steve got nothin t'do with this, this's between you and me."

" _What's_ between you and me,"  Sam growls, because that doesn't even make much sense, and because sometimes it feels like nothing is between just them.

They’re facing each other now, James on his knees, his prosthetic hand fisted on the concrete, mirroring Sam’s posture.  His teeth are bared at Sam.  He’s swaying, a drunken list to one side and then an awkward correction.  The light from the pool flickers over his face, making him look sallow, and like a stranger.  

James' pocket buzzes again.  His hand moves towards it, probably automatically, and Sam snaps, "He can wait."

“Fuckin -” James spits out, just two ugly syllables connected to nothing, and twists away, trying to push himself to his feet.  He trips - on the grass or his own bare feet, Sam doesn’t see, and goes sprawling.

Sam moves, instinctively, reaching out a hand to James’ back before he checks himself, shuffles forward carefully.  “You okay?” he asks, unwilling.

James pushes himself back up onto his knees.  He’s still half twisted, only a sliver of his face visible.  He holds up a hand and Sam stops, asks again, “James?  You okay?”  But all that happens is James turns around and throws up all over the grass.

 

-

 

He cleans James up in the kitchen.  Makes him drink a Gatorade from the fridge.  Goes and drags the hose out, washes vomit off the grass, hoping there won’t be some weird bare patch in a few days.  Comes back inside to find James still sitting in the kitchen, looking queasy and miserable, his fingers twisted together between his knees.  He lets Sam wrangle him upstairs, stepping as quietly up the stairs as a big drunk guy can be.  Fumbles awkwardly with his jeans before giving up and getting under the covers still dressed.  Comes back up a moment later, pushing his cigarettes and phone on the side table.  

Sam undresses.  Drops his own phone and wallet on top of the dresser.  Brushes his teeth.  Washes his face.  The house is quiet around them except for the faint, whistling snores of his father, down the hall.  Sam closes the bedroom door behind himself.  

Stands staring at James for a moment, sprawled out like he’d hit the bed running.  Sighs.  Goes downstairs for another Gatorade, a pot, and a plastic bag to line it with.  Sets it all next to the bed.  Wedges a shoulder under James’ dead weight, gets him turned over onto his side at the edge of the bed.  Rests his forehead against on the pillow next to James, eyes closed, for a long moment.  

James’ phone buzzes, from the dresser.  Anger flares, hot and abrupt in Sam’s chest.  He raises his eyes and glares at the phone.  It buzzes again, and Sam reaches for it without thinking much about it.    

He hesitates, though - his fingertips brushing the hard plastic.  He’s never known James to be possessive about his phone; he’ll flip it to Sam to look up directions or answer a text while they’re driving, or if they’re out, or if he’s stoned and is too lazy to look himself.  But Sam doesn’t - it feels -

Well, if James hadn’t gotten wasted he could be taking his own damn messages.  And he should’ve told Steve to fuck off for a couple days, anyway, they spend enough damn time together.  That shit was goddamn unhealthy.

He thumbs open the phone, types in James’ passcode - but before he can type out _fuck off Steve he’s passed out_ , he makes the mistake of reading Steve’s messages.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if it's clear yet, but I'm messing with the official MCU timeline by shifting the dates out by about two years. This story takes place during the events of Iron Man 2, shortly before The Avengers.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the updated tags in this chapter. There is content that may be triggering or upsetting. Please take care.

 

He wakes up when the bed shifts.  He shifts with it, loose limbed, groggy.  His whole body heavy and warm.   _Good_ feeling.  Feels - 

His mouth falls open, and he sighs, soft.  The barest crack of light coming in between his closed eyes.  Wet heat on his throat.  Sting of teeth on the soft skin just under his ear.  He lifts his chin, encourages.  Breathes.  Hot trail of fingers on his belly, playing with the hair there, dipping lower to play with his cock through his shorts.   _Fuck_ , that feels good.

An unsteady hiss of breath.  The head of his cock being squeezed lightly, the way he likes it, Sam’s hips jumping a little at the feel of it.  The hot crackle of his nerves waking up, still sluggish.  He’s being touched.  Oh god, fuck, _yes_ , please, he’s being touched.

He gasps when the hand sneaks its way into his shorts, wraps long fingers around his damp cock.  Just holds him for a moment.  Feeling him get hard.  That hot, wet mouth on his chest now, nipping along the edges of his ribs, the jumpy muscles of his stomach.  Shift of gravity as one leg is thrown over his, for better access.  “Fuck, _James_ ,” he gasps, and James says, “ _Shhhhh_.”

“Wait,” Sam says, and manages to get his eyes open.  Sees James - sleepworn and a little rough and beautiful in the thin slats of sunlight peering through the blinds - sprawled half on top of Sam, balanced on his left elbow.  Looking up at him, eyes big and round.  Sam’s cock looking dark and wet against his pink, calloused fingers, just the head visible over the waistband of Sam's shorts.  James strokes him, and Sam’s hips lift and his toes curl, feeling it all over his body, but he gets a hand up and over the nape of James’ neck, rubbing down along his spine.  James’ eyes close, and he exhales, arching up into the touch.  His weight on Sam’s thighs, now, moving down, slipping out of Sam’s grasp.   

He keeps his hand on Sam’s cock.  Holding him still.  His prosthetic forearm cool and braced carefully along Sam’s hipbone.  When he licks his lips Sam feels the flicker of his tongue on the head of his cock, and he has to clap a hand over his mouth to keep from groaning out loud.  Everything slowed down to half speed, like a movie.  The whole of his focus narrowed on the kiss of his lips on Sam’s cock, the sudden swallow and swirl of his tongue edging up against the grip of his fingers.  

The pressure of it, building in his stomach.  Shaking a little with how good it feels, James not even doing much, just that soft, slow suck, his hand slick now, working the whole length of Sam’s cock.  Like it could go on forever.  Like he could come like this, right now.  James’ eyes flickering up, soft and drugged looking.  Like it feels as good to him, to suck Sam off.  Each stroke of his tongue up and around Sam’s cock dragging him closer, _oh god, yeah_.

“ _Ffffuck_ ,” Sam manages, and feels it like an electric shock when James hums, vibration all along Sam’s cock, all the way down his throat now, and like that Sam’s coming, panting with it, _hurting_ a little, his eyes squeezed tight enough that sparks go off behind his eyes.

James _whimpers_ , like he can’t help it, and Sam reaches for him, reaches under his shoulders, helps him crawl back up the bed on his hands and knees.  Takes the weight of him, James' cock trapped between their stomachs as he thrusts, their skin slick with sweat, getting himself off like that.  Still smooth, slow, like he’s weighted down with sleep too, and Sam strokes both hands over his waist, puts his knees up on either side of James’ hips.  Holds him close as he comes, shuddering, gasping, his breath hot on Sam’s neck.

For a long while, they breathe, and hold each other.  James tucks his face further into Sam’s neck, an arm up under Sam’s shoulder.  Sam pets him, gentle, his fingers sliding over the sweaty skin of his back.  

“I’m sorry,” James mumbles, eventually.  “I’m so, so sorry.  I don’t know what happened.”

“You barfed by the pool,” Sam admits.  He feels James cringe, full body.

“I know,” he says, tense like he thinks Sam’s gonna push him away.  “I meant why.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I said some really shitty stuff."

Sam runs a hand down his side, stares up at the ceiling.  “I’m sorry too,” he says, after a while.  Because he knew what James had been thinking.  He’d already known James was nervous.  That he was scared.  That he was meeting someone’s parents for the first time since - god only knew.  Since he was mutilated and was nearly tortured to death, at the very least.  But Sam hadn’t thought much about it, until he’d scrolled through James’ texts to Steve.  Seen hours of _can't do this im gonna fuck it up_ , and _you shld see their fkng country club house I feel like a bum_ , and _itd break my heart if Sam dumped me_.

Sam hadn’t thought about it.  He’d been scared too.  Was still scared, maybe.  Definitely.  

They trade off for an awkward shuffle down the hall, to the shower.  Sam takes the first one, washes come off his stomach and out of his pubic hair.  He’s a little hungover - or just tired, maybe.  Both.  He sits on the bed, shirtless, as James showers - scrolling through his own phone.  Just emails about school - no one to tell him _yr gonna be fine Buck calm the fuck down_ or _do your breathing exercises k? call if you wanna do them tgthr its gonna be okay.  im here for u._

No one to say, _Sam, it’s your fuckin life and you’re my brother no matter what.  You think I give a fuck where my brother sticks his dick? **Hell** no._

The door opens.  James closes it behind him, looking worse for wear, but at least clean.  His face is tight - he’s rolling his shoulder out, his other hand digging into the muscles under his armpit.  “Don’t forget to uh,” Sam says, and James nods, stiff, kneeling down to dig through his duffel for his pill keeper and the little ziploc baggie of medicinal candies. 

Sam shrugs a shirt on, walks to the dresser for his wallet and keys.  He looks out the window, just little slits to the street and the world outside.  He’d woken up to that view most his life, before he traded it for barracks and sand: the drooping willow tree next door, the scrubby pine and oak trees that shade the gently sloping road.  A nice, normal, middle class suburb; the kind of place people moved to for a good schools and an easy commute to DC, where the grocery stores had gluten free options and their kids could still play out on the street.  He’d been so fucking bored, growing up here.

He hears James step up behind him.  He sets a tentative hand on Sam’s waist.  Sam turns, draws him in close, makes room for James to lean his temple against Sam’s.  Under Sam’s hand, the prosthetic lifts, whirs, settles.  “You ready?” James says,  and before he can think too much about the real answer Sam nods, and lets him go.

 

-

 

Arlington is - overwhelming. 

Sam’s been before.  Went when he first came back.  It’s funny, but he can barely remember the day - he knows it’d been cold.  He knows he sat by Grandpa Edwin’s grave for hours.  He knows he cried.  But he can’t remember what he’d said, or even how he felt.  It’s just - a blank, colorless space in his memory.   

It helps, having James there.  It’s just the two of them today.  There’s a big party tonight, Sam’s grandma and uncles and aunts and cousins, but this morning is just the two of them, visiting old friends.

They go to see Grandpa Edwin first, who’d been a kind old man who’d loved his grandkids more than life itself and didn’t have too much to say about the Homosexuals and their weird parades.  Sam introduces him to James anyway, kneels still and silent for a while in front of the grave, not thinking about much at all.  It's easier than last time, he thinks, probably.

Next up is Lieutenant Peterson, almost half a mile walk from Grandpa Edwin, whose headstone James slaps companionably before settling down cross legged in front of it.  “Ugliest motherfucker you’ve ever seen,” he confides in Sam.  “Hey Peterson, this is my boyfriend.  You should be so fuckin lucky.”

He sits and talks to Peterson for few minutes, idly picking grass, and Sam lets it all wash over him.  Peterson’s resting place is quiet, and thick with trees, surrounded by thousands and thousands of other small white stones, same as Grandpa Edwin’s.  If Sam lets his eyes rest they blur into a sea of marble, meaningless in scale.

“They all called me Faggot Jim,” James says as he stands, brushing dirt off the seat of his jeans.  He shakes his head.  “S’funny, whenever I’d be on leave that’d be one of the weirdest things I’d have to get used to - that if someone called me a faggot I should beat ‘em up.”

Sam rolls his eyes.  He feels abruptly thrown back into his body, his gaze resharpening on individual graves, individual names.  “You can probably guess what some of those guys called me," he says.

James tucks his hands in his pockets, gives him a sharp grin.  “You ever beat anyone up over it?”

“Damn right I did,” Sam says, and they turn back down the aisle, back towards the road.  “Was Peterson one of the guys who,” Sam asks, but James shakes his head before he’s finished with the question.

“Nah, we were all,” he says, and blows air out between his lips.  “Peterson and I were buddies, in selection.  He died about a month in on our second tour.  Doing some hearts and minds shit, just got caught in the wrong place.  My team, the ones I was captured with, they’re uh …”

He trails off, and then says abruptly, “You know, I still got a headstone up, at Mount Carmel.  Out in Queens.  My ma wanted to take it down, but I figured, y'know, why bother?  I’ll use it eventually.  You wanna see it some time?” 

“Oh sure,” Sam says, “that doesn’t sound morbid at all.  We can make a date out of it, bring a picnic, reminisce about that time you were dead.”

James laughs, and holds out a hand, and they walk awhile in the cool sunshine.  It feels like fall, though none of the trees have turned; like the rest of the world hasn’t noticed yet.  “You got anyone else you wanna visit?” James asks.

“Nah,” Sam says, because it’s true.  Riley’s grave is down in Georgia, as empty as James’ is.

“Mmm,” James says, “well there’s Oladunni over in section 34, and Colucci over in 8 but I kinda hated that guy, he enjoyed that whole faggot thing a little too much, you catch me - oh, you wanna go see Cap?  The memorial’s just up the hill.”

The memorial to Captain America and the Howling Commandos is tucked away from the main roads, a little clearing of neatly tended grass almost entirely enclosed by willow trees.  Sam’s never been there before, had walked probably walked past it a dozen times as a kid, on school field trips or with Grandpa Edwin.  The memorial itself is an odd setup - approaching from the path, you’re confronted with a featureless marble sun, flanked on either side by stone benches.  Fluttering in the trees are hundreds of flags, letters from children, little trinkets that whoever keeps this place allows to stay, all glittering in the sun.  It’s quiet, even though there are a few tourists milling around, looking at the letters and memorabilia, a knot of them standing by the path with map in hand, chatting carelessly about what dead people to see next.  

It’s not until you round the benches that you see that the sun is giant concave disk, protecting the little flame burning at its base, shielding it from the wind.  Around the flame are bronze placards - each one bearing the name of a soldier in Rogers’ unit, Sam guesses.  There are dozens, set into the earth - four placed above these for the men who had served directly under Rogers, and two set on the bottom of the memorial itself.  One for Captain America - one for Bucky Barnes.

“It faces towards his last known coordinates, when the Valkyrie went down,” James says, settling himself down on the bench.  “Nice, right?”

“Nice,” Sam echoes.  It’s pretty.  The wind rustles in the trees, the little pinwheels and streamers hanging off the branches, setting the whole world in a soft motion.  He breathes out, watches the flame flicker, warm and hypnotic.  “Yeah, it’s real nice.”

James grins, like he had something to do with it.  Their position on the bench gives them a good view of anyone approaching, as well as anyone coming up the hillside.  It’s real nice, Sam thinks again, and tips his face up towards the sun.

“Is it weird?” he asks, after a long moment of silence.  James glances at him, tilts his head.  “That’s your family,” Sam says, gesturing.  “That’s actually _your name,_ up on that memorial.”  

“My middle name’s Montgomery,” James says, dryly.

“Still,” Sam says, and then, “Wow, is it really?  What kind of white bullshit is that?”

“I don’t know, what kind of white bullshit is Buchanan?” James says.  “Nah, it’s not weird.  I’m used to it.  It was cool, when I was a kid.  Made me feel special.  Like the rest of the world could look up to Captain America, but I had my own personal superhero.”

“I felt the same way about Gabe Jones, when I was little,” Sam says.  “My grandpa collected all the comics. Leastways, the ones that actually had Jones in ‘em, they didn’t put him in until the 60’s.”

“Thought Cap was your favorite,” James says, and Sam nudges him.

“Hey, don't get it twisted," he says.  "I love Cap.  But nah, not really.  When you’re a kid you pick the one that looks like you.  If you can.  If there is one.”

“Yeah,” James says, softly, and laughs, unexpectedly.  “Yeah, uh, same.  I looked up to Bucky a lot, as a kid.  My Great Aunt Esther, she’s so cool - you gotta meet her.  Bucky was seven years older than her and she's got all kinds of stories about him, before he went off to war.  I wanted to be just like him, when I grew up.”

“Did you enlist to be like Bucky Barnes?” Sam says, grinning, and James rolls his eyes.

“No,” he says, and then hesitates.  “Maybe.  I don’t know, maybe there was a little of that.  More, you know, everything that was going on at the time.  I _saw_ the Towers fall, you know?  And it hits you real hard when it’s _your_ city, your _people_.  Everything seemed so overwhelming, so awful.  I think people just wanted to have something to hold onto, something that was - simpler.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, because he remembers that, remembers how clear it had all seemed, back then.  He’d signed up as much for the college money, the opportunities, as anything else - but he’d wanted to do good.  Set his sights on medic before hearing about pararescue, about medics who went where others couldn’t, who rescued astronauts and Marines, who gave their all so that others could live.  He hadn't really thought much about the rest of it.

James leans forward, settles his elbows on his knees.  "I think he was lucky, he never had to come back,” he says.  “Bucky, I mean.  What do you think would've happened to him, anyway?  The Cold War and Communist witch hunts?  A job in the government?  He was in love with Steve Rogers. He was probably better off dead."

Sam stares blankly at the memorial for long seconds.  He turns his head, looks at James, who’s still staring out himself, squinting a little in the sun.  “Excuse me?” he asks.

James grins, sidelong.  Enjoying the look on Sam’s face.  “Bucky Barnes was gay," he says, simple, like it's no big deal.  "He and Steve Rogers, they were together before the war.  We’ve got letters Bucky wrote to Steve, when he was stationed in North Africa.  My great aunt found em after they died."

“Holy shit,” Sam says, almost whispering it, shocked right down to his core.  He looks back at the memorial, traces the line of the shield, all those name plates set into this honored ground.  “Holy shit,” he says again, reverently.  “That would piss off _so many_ Republicans.”

James bursts out laughing.  Some tourists turn at the sound, glare at him.  It only makes him giggle harder, mostly muffled behind his hand.  "Why have you guys never _told_ anyone?" Sam asks.

James shrugs.  "My great aunt, mostly.  She's - real protective.  Especially now, after those fuckin Tea Party weirdos are all over Cap's nuts.  Like he wasn't a card carrying Communist back in the day."

"You are blowing my mind here," Sam says, laughing.  "Gay Commies in love, I don't know man, I think you're making it up."

"It's true!" James says, loud enough that the tourists look over again, send more dirty looks their way.  This time he glares back, but he lowers his voice when he speaks again.  "It's true.  Well, I don't think Bucky was a Communist.  Aunt Esther thought he was pretty apolitical.  But anyway, way cooler than the story they told us in school, right?  I'll show you the letters sometime - they're kinda dirty, actually.  But pretty, you know?  Specially for a kid from Brooklyn who never even finished high school.  He was so in love."

"Scuse me, can you take our picture?" someone calls.  It's a new group of tourists: socks, sandals and fanny packs, standing expectantly in front of Captain Rogers' eternal flame.  

"Sure thing," James says, and tips a wink to Sam as he pushes himself to his feet.  

Sam leans back a little, braces his palms on the bench.  Watches James herd the tourists into position, smiles with them.  Captain America and Bucky Barnes, in love.  What a weird idea.  What a weird world.  The flame of the memorial sits almost between the two placards, and he wonders if whoever designed it knew too, how many other people knew and had kept their secret for more than twice as long as they'd even been alive.  

They sit in silence as the tourists flutter off, and more take their place.  Sam doesn't feel any particular urge to talk.  James pulls a cigarette out but doesn't light it, just turns it over and over in his gloved fingers.  Sticks it behind his ear, takes an edible out of his pocket and eats it, not looking at Sam.  It's a good silence, contemplative - like the fight last night hadn't even happened, like they're not due to face the gauntlet of Sam's extended family in T-minus four hours.

“He should've got to come home,” Sam says, eventually.  James looks at him, frowns.  “Bucky, I mean.  No one’s better off dead.”

James rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting.  “You would think that,” he says.  “Least if you’re dead the world’s not so fuckin complicated.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “but then you can’t make it better.”

“You and Steve, man,” James says, and shakes his head.  “You guys are so idealistic it kills me.  You oughta be Captain America, the way you talk sometimes.”

“Hey, I’d make a great Captain America.  I’d be the best damn Captain America you ever saw,” Sam tells him, and leans over to kiss the smile he gets for that.  Kissing his boyfriend in the sunshine, in front of the memorial to Captain America, who was loved by Bucky Barnes.  What a world.  

James puts his head on Sam's shoulder, scootching down a little to fit, and lets out the kind of sigh you make after kissing someone in the sunshine on a beautiful day.  Sam puts an arm around his shoulders and tells him, just in case, "I'm glad you got home, Barnes."

James is quiet for a moment.  "Last night," he says.

"I know."

“I wanted to be normal.  I wanted your folks to think I was normal.”

 _Me too_ , Sam thinks.  "Hey, you are normal," he says.  James twists up, lifts his head far enough off Sam's shoulder to give him a skeptical look.  "We're normal," he says.

James sits up, his eyebrows lifting, and Sam gives him the same expression back, holds it until he sees James bite down on his lower lip, trying not to laugh. "Sure," Sam says, and gives in himself, "just look at us.  Normal, all-American guys.  Don't you think so?"

 

-

 

Sam's alarm goes off at 5:45 every morning.  Some days, he's actually still sleeping.

He's out of bed by 6, gently setting aside James' grumbling, warm weight; if James wakes up and wants to fool around a little, then it's 6:15 or 6:30.  Stretches in the living room before he pulls his sneakers and sweatpants on and heads out the door.  He heads south on New York Ave and runs all the way to Grand Army Plaza, does the half loop in Prospect Park too on Mondays and Tuesday, when he only has afternoon classes.  It's a nice run, down Eastern Parkway and past the Brooklyn Museum and the Library, especially now that all the leaves have turned orange and gold and red.  

He takes Washington Ave back up most days.  There's not a cute coffee shop in James' part of town so he'll usually just pick up some coffees at the bodega, trade James coffee for omelettes when he gets back to the house.  He doesn't live there, but he's there more often than not these days, has a drawer of clothes at the bottom of the built ins, has a toothbrush and a loofah and his brand of soap in the bathroom.  

He turns on Prospect Place that day, like he does sometimes.  The houses are pretty, blocks of dignified brownstones, the trees nice and full, dropping an orange carpet under his feet.  And he gets most of the way home, too - hooks left on Nostrand, passes the racist bodega with the good beer, makes for the bougie bodega with the two cats and decent coffee, thinking mostly about the project he has due this afternoon, how he'll present his findings, how bad he wants to shower after his long run.  

He waits, eyes wandering, as the bodega guy goes through the ritual of placing each coffee in its own tiny paper bag, and each bag into a larger paper bag, and then that paper bag into a black plastic bag.  The cover of the _Post_ shows the big globe out at the Stark Fair on fire, some robots or something zooming around it.   _Man, shit's gotten weird since Iron Man became a thing_ , he thinks, and then smiles, thinking of the money Tony Stark must be losing with the Fair closed.  Remembers a second later to worry about whether anyone was hurt.  Doesn't pick up the paper, as he may be new to New York but he still knows the _Post_ isn't fit to line a birdcage, but gives himself a reminder to look it up online, over breakfast.  

It's just after eight in the morning when he steps onto St. Mark’s, points his feet east, and spots a pair of cops loitering down the block.  

His heart kicks up a little, like it usually does, and he thinks about crossing the street.  He hasn't had any problem with the NYPD for a few months, hasn't had any problems at all save for a few times he got asked for his ID and told to turn out his pockets, right when he first moved to Brooklyn.  But it's eight in the morning on a Tuesday, and anyway it'd probably look worse if he crossed the street to avoid them.

He keeps his eyes averted, but as he passes one of the cops calls out anyway, "What're you lookin at, huh?"

Sam shakes his head, keeps his gaze down, and the other one goes, "Hey, he asked you a question."

It's hard not to roll his eyes, but he stops walking, turns.  "Wasn't looking," he says.  "Just on my way home."

"You live around here?" one of them asks.  They draw close.  Everything on them glints in the morning sun.  Badges, guns, little odds and ends hanging off the blue uniforms.  White guys, one maybe James' age, the other older-looking.  

"No, I'm going to my," Sam says, and changes it at the last minute, "friend's house.  I live in Prospect Heights."

"You don't live in Prospect Heights," the older one says, assured.  Floyd, his badge says.  He's not even really looking at Sam, his gaze so fixed over Sam's shoulder that he almost turns to see what the dude's looking at.  "You got ID on you?  No?  Why not?"

"I don't take anything with me when I'm running," Sam says, and gestures to himself.  "See?  Dressed for running."

"This guy thinks he's pretty smart," says Floyd.

"Got any warrants, smart guy?" says the younger one.  They're talking fast at him, making him ping pong back and forth between them, rapid fire.  The younger one, Daniels, has one thumb hooked over his belt near his gun, casual, like it doesn't draw the eye down and remind you what's what.

"No," Sam says, and some impulse has him adding, "I'm a veteran."

They actually roll their eyes at each other, like it takes more than six months to get a police badge and Sam hadn't forgotten more about marksmanship than these punks would ever know.

"Put your hands up against the wall," Floyd says, gesturing with his chin.  "You know the drill."

The first time this had happened to him, he'd actually thought there'd been a reason for it.  He'd turned his pockets out, a little bewildered, meekly submitting.  Back on US soil for what felt like weeks instead of months, still at ease when people told him what to do.  Had barely thought to question it, until it happened again.  And again.  And again.

"I don't consent to a search," Sam says, and sure enough Daniels says, "You think I'm asking for your fuckin consent?"

The bag of coffee's yanked out of his hand, and he's turned roughly up against the wall.  They're outside of a Key Foods, some smelly dumpster a handful of yards away, the whole area smelling like rotting garbage.  Floyd's checking the bag, finding nothing but coffee, and Daniels' hands are all over Sam, searching him.  He's rough about it, forceful enough that he knocks Sam's head into the brick wall when he's pushed forward.

"I didn't _do_ anything," Sam grits out, tries to hold still as Daniels' fingers fish around in his running shorts, come up with his phone, headphones coiled around it, the fabric from the pocket brought out with it, hanging loose and stupid looking out in the air.

"Yeah, well, you look suspicious," Floyd says, careless, taking Sam's cell phone off of Daniels.  There are other people around, walking by - Sam can hear them, even if he can't really look around, doesn't want to - just keeps his eyes on the red brick.  "Maybe we just got a call about a perp on Nostrand and you fit the bill - black male, gray hoodie -"

"It's not a hoodie," Sam says, even as some dumb instinct snarls at him to _stop talking_ , just let them get their power trip in and then they’ll _leave you alone_.  Don't fight back, don't bother, just _let it be over with_.  His chest is tight - it's hard to breathe, hard to keep his body still and his palms pressed flat against the wall.  He squeezes his eyes shut.

"Plus you jaywalked back there," Daniels says, and actually _laughs_.

"This is New York!" Sam says, and several things happen at once:

Floyd says, "I don't like that attitude," and

Daniels grabs Sam's left wrist and twists it to get it down and behind Sam's back, and

Sam yelps at the sharp unexpected pain of it, and flinches.

He feels Floyd react to it, to the flinch, sees the flicker of motion off to the side, and everything in him lights up in alarm.  Everything happens after that is instinct.

Duck.  Break his hold.  Protect the injury.  Get down.  Get out of reach.  Disarm.  

The gun's in his hand and the hostile is on the ground, and there's a vicious, clear moment where Sam's whole body sings clear and bright, the pistol heavy and comfortable in his hand, the whole scene laying out like it's already happened: two shots, damage contained, engagement finished, job well done.  

But it's only a moment.  The space between one breath where everything makes beautiful, perfect sense and the next where Sam realizes he's on the sidewalk in Brooklyn next to a dumpster and a screaming cop who's going to kill him.

"Don't shoot!" he cries, and puts his hands up, finger off the trigger, _oh god please don't shoot_ , thumbing the magazine release on the Glock in his hand and slowly, slowly, lowering it to the ground, Floyd screaming in his face the whole time to "Drop the weapon, hands in the air, get on the fucking ground!"

"I'm not resisting!" he cries, "Don't shoot!" and gets belly down on the ground just before Daniels knocks him flat, his face hitting the sidewalk hard enough that it bounces, hard enough that he feels gravel grinding and then splitting his skin, and at that point he can only be glad he'd closed his eyes so the mace mostly goes in his mouth and nose instead.

"I'm not resisting, don't shoot!" he says, over and over, choking on it, on the mace, on something hitting his ribs, getting kicked, not resisting, not fighting back, keeping his hands out in front of him until they're yanked back hard enough he feels it all the way up his shoulder and he feels the snap of handcuffs around his wrists.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some context on Stop & Frisk, please see [here.](http://hansbekhart.tumblr.com/post/129812950268/so-im-about-to-update-my-story-make-a-thing-go)


	9. Chapter 9

 

The precinct is a squat brick building on Utica Avenue.  The inside smells like a building you can still smoke in, gray and greasy and cold.  He's patted down again, more thoroughly.  He's sat down at someone's desk to give his pedigree.  A black woman, blue uniform, sleepy looking.  Her badge says Jones in dull, brassy letters.  "Name, date of birth, address, Social," she says, little pauses where he can give his answers.  He's the only one in there besides the cops, too early even out in East New York for much to be going on.  

He's got blood crusted under his nose and in his goatee, and the tickle of dried blood down his cheek, itchy now.  His shoulder and ribs are aching and each breath feels like it's on fire but nothing's broken.  He's still cuffed, his hands behind his back.  His nose is running from the mace, and he wipes it periodically on the shoulder of his sweatshirt.  He can smell himself.  He smells sweaty, grassy from the run in the park, sour from the fear that still hasn't quite let go of him.  His foot shakes, underneath the metal desk.  

His stuff's all over her desk, what little he had on him.  His phone, headphones, keys, the buck fifty he had leftover from the bodega.  He's got three missed calls and a dozen texts.  It lights up again while he's sitting there.   _Did u go 2 yr sisters house?_

"Can I answer that?" he asks, and nods his chin towards the phone.

She doesn't even look at it, just dumps everything into a big bag.  "You can use our phone in a bit. They'll give you a voucher later, to get everything back after arraignment."

"I didn't even do anything," he says, nasal from the his running nose, still clogged with blood.  His sweatshirt is covered in reddish streaks.

Her eyebrows lift, and she looks down, flips through her paperwork.  "That's not what it says here," she says.  

"I hadn't done anything," he says, firmer.  "They stopped me for no reason."

"You should probably save this for your lawyer," she tells him.  "I'm just helping with the paperwork."

He sags a little, tries to straighten up.  The metal seat is clammy under his butt, damp feeling.  It's cold in the office, everyone else in long sleeves and pants.  "Will you please uncuff me?" he asks, quietly.

He's fingerprinted, photographed.  They give him a wet cloth to wipe his face with before they make him stand in front of the camera, face front, _flash_ , now to the side, _flash_.  Then to a holding cell, while they check to see if he's got warrants or summonses.  He's in there for two hours alone when a uniformed officer shows a very drunk, very old black man into the cell, and shrugs when Sam asks for his phone calls.

He tries Lou first, still has her number memorized after years of dialing his family from Afghanistan and Iraq and Texas and New Mexico and Washington.  No answer, of course; by this time she's probably underground, on her way to work.  "Lou, I got arrested," he tells her voicemail, "I'm at the 77th Precinct, I don't know what's gonna happen."

He swallows hard around everything else he wants to say, squeezes the bridge of his nose.  His voice sounds wrecked.  "I'm gonna try James next.  Don't let Mom and Dad know.  Okay?  Do not tell them."

He hangs up the phone, looks over at Officer Jones.  "Can I see my phone?  I don't have the number memorized."

"I'll read it out to you," she says.  "Who you trying to call?"

He grits his teeth, admits, "Boo Thang," taps out the number she reads off.

"She's going to work," Jones says, apparently reading James' texts.  "She says to call if you want to meet for lunch."  He doesn't bother to correct her.

He calls anyway.  Maybe he can catch James before he's on the subway or in class.  No good.  Leaves the same message, tells him to call Lou.  Feels like he's waving a Please Save Me flag a mile high even as he says, "Don't worry," because the last thing he wants to deal with is James flipping out on top of everything else.

Rests his forehead on the back of his hands for a long moment.  His nose is clear, finally, his face still itchy all over from the mace and the cut on his cheek, but it's still so fucking hard to breathe.  This had happened a few times, when he first got back. Panic attacks.  His fingers feel numb.  If only he could _talk_ to someone, make sure someone knows he's here, make sure someone's coming for him.

"Can I get another number?" he asks Jones, without opening his eyes.

It picks up on the third ring.  "Hello?" asks a breathy, sleepy voice.

Sam swallows, exhales slow through his nose.  "Hey Peggy," he says.  "It's Sam.  Is Steve there?  Can you put him on?"

There's a few clicks and noises, the sound of Peggy's voice in the background, _Sam's calling you, wake up_ , and then Steve's voice, groggy, "Hey, what's up?"

For a second Sam can't even say anything, throat working, like there's something real lodged in his windpipe, choking him.  Abruptly, he's sorry he called.  "Hey, I'm sorry," he says, and on the other end of the phone Steve makes some kind of soft noise, dismissive.  "I got arrested.  I can't reach James, I guess he uh, I guess he went to work.  Can you let him know?"

"You got what?" Steve says, awake now.  Sounds on the other end of the line, Peggy's voice.  "Are you okay?  Where are you?  What happened?  Peg, Sam's in trouble."

Sam lets himself sag forward, waits for the noise to die down.  "Got stopped comin off Nostrand," he says, and Steve says, "wait wait, don't tell me, don't admit to anything, they listen to your calls.  Are they charging you with anything?"

"Prob'ly," Sam mumbles. He's sweating, where the phone is pressed against his ear.  He puts a hand over his eyes, sealing out all the light.

"Okay," Steve says, "I'm gonna call some people, okay?  Depending on what the charges are they might give you a desk ticket and release you there, or you might be held until you go before a judge.  They're not supposed to hold you more than twenty-four hours.  Don't tell them anything, don't take a plea bargain.  Don't talk to anyone except your lawyer."

"I don't have a lawyer," Sam says.  His eyelashes brush against the palm of his hand as he blinks.

"Oh," Steve says, "oh, um - we'll get someone.  Okay?  We'll figure it out."

"Okay," Sam repeats, numb.  His hand feels numb.  His face feels numb.  He’s a student.  He can barely afford the rent he pays to Lou, which is a lot less than she’d make renting it to some stranger.  He can't afford a lawyer.  He can't afford bail.  He doesn't even know what making bail means, some vague concept from _Law & Order_, Jesus, he _attacked_ that cop, he's lucky he got out of there _alive_.  

He squeezes, hard, until he feels it in his temples, until it hurts.  Keep it together.  Steve's saying something.  Keep it together.  "Okay," Sam says, "okay, okay."

"Okay," Steve says, satisfied (apparently he got it right), "hang in there, Sam.  Keep your head down, you'll be fine.  I'll wrangle Bucky.  We'll get you out of there as soon as possible."

"Okay," Sam repeats, because there's nothing else he can do.

Two more hours.  The old drunk man sleeps and then, eventually, staggers up and vomits in the smelly steel toilet.  Eventually enough fear and anger wears off that Sam realizes he's desperately, gnawingly hungry.  Officers Floyd and Daniels don't return.  Occasionally he hears the chirp of his cell phone, apparently still on Officer Jones' desk.  No one talks to him.  That's okay, he doesn't want to talk to them.

Eventually they hit critical mass, or Sam’s info comes back and they find out he’s a decorated fucking combat veteran and not a wanted felon, but around noon he and the three other unlucky fuckers at the 77th Precinct are handcuffed together in one long daisy chain and loaded into a van to be taken to Central Booking.  He’d imagined The Tombs, capital letters clear in his mind, dim memories of cop movies from the Seventies and a scary looking building in Chinatown he’s walked past, but instead they’re driven to downtown Brooklyn, not too far from where he shops at Trader Joe’s.

Separated from the other guys.  Searched again, stripped naked this time.  Clothes shaken out.  Nothing in his pockets, nothing in his underwear.  Not so bad, like being back in selection, or at least it helps to think of it that way instead of how it really feels.  It’s cold outside, cold inside the building, old concrete floors, a bare effort at insulation.  There are sports posters on the walls, faded and tatty looking.  A Captain America poster, new looking, like a joke: Cap, hands on hips, looking stern.   _YOU Can Help STOP TB!_ it says.  He tries to avoid looking at it.

The floors are battleship gray, the doors an incongruous baby blue.  Every door he sees is locked.  He thinks of himself as a locked door.  Bright red.  A light on underneath.  

Sent to a different room to be screened by an EMT.  Nose and throat examined, even though the burning from the mace faded hours ago.  Cheek bandaged, sloppily.  Sam could do better in his sleep.  Diagnosed with a strained shoulder, obviously.  The guy doesn’t even notice Sam’s bruised ribs.

A series of yes or no questions, looking at the floor.  No fever.  No sores.  No headache.  “Want an AIDS test?” the guy asks, and then adds, at the look on Sam’s face, “It’s free.”

“I’m monogamous,” Sam says.

“It’s confidential,” the guy says, but doesn’t push.  “Any travel lately?”

“Couple tours in Afghanistan,” Sam says, to be a dick about it.  

The guy shrugs, writes it down on the intake form.  

Then he’s shown to a holding pen.  Half full of dudes not looking at each other, like the world’s worst subway ride.  Maintaining their own little careful bubble of space.  There’s nowhere to sit so Sam settles on the floor, back against the wall, as far from the toilet as he can get.  And then he waits.  Stomach rumbling.  Shoulder aching.  Wrist aching.  But nothing worse than he’d had overseas.  Or the first time he really fell with the wings, he’d fucked himself up pretty good doing that, Riley had -

It’s been worse.  He’s been through worse.  

At 4:30 in the afternoon he’s given his first meal of the day.  It’s two cheese sandwiches.  A little container of fruit punch.  

People come and go.  He’s moved twice, to emptier cells.  First one has a guy in it, spidery tattoos on his face, heavy metal ring, keeps clacking it over the bars. Erratic, gunshot sort of sound to it, the look on his face like someone waiting to call him on it.  Sam doesn't.  Keeps his head down.  

When his name gets called he has to squeeze past the guy to get out the door.  Their hands barely brush.  The next cell is empty, thank god, but after a minute a girl comes, fresh faced and wide eyed.  She introduces herself as Maria from the Criminal Justice Agency and asks him to make a case for himself.

"I'm a veteran," he tells her.  "I served in the Air Force from 2004 through the end of 2012.  I'm a grad student at Hunter.  I live with my sister in Prospect Heights.  It's a nice neighborhood.  A nice apartment.  My father's an accountant and my mother's a doctor, down in D.C.  I'm going to school to be a therapist for combat vets.  I've never -"

He stops, closes his eyes, stops looking at the bars between them.  What else.  "My service record is excellent.  I did four tours overseas.  I was just discharged, last year.  I was a paramedic."

What else.  What else.  He gives her the names and contact information of his unit commander and his counselor at school.  Gives her Lou's phone number and address.  It doesn't feel like enough, but she squeezes his shoulder when she leaves, gives him a smile that makes him feel better, at least for a moment.

For three hours there's only two other guys in with him, so he has a bench to sit on and, eventually, to lie down on.  The metal leaches the heat out of him but it's better than the concrete floor.  Better than a hole in the ground, with a rock for a pillow.  Better than -

He wonders where James is, if he's okay.  If he's worried.  If he'll be there whenever Sam gets out of this.  

What his sister's doing.  If she told their parents Sam had been arrested.  

If they know what happened - that that cop almost shot Sam, how fucking stupid could he be, eight years flinging himself out of helicopters and off cliffs and going where others couldn't and giving his all so that others could live and it could have ended like that, next to a dumpster, on the sidewalk in Brooklyn, alone -

He could have killed those cops too.  Was going to.  He'd been about to kill them.  He'd thought - he doesn't know what he'd thought.  He'd just - _reacted_.

He gets up, paces a bit.  Takes a piss in the toilet in the corner of the cell.  Lays back down.  Pulls his arms out of his sleeves, bunches them awkwardly up under his head, wraps his arms around himself inside the sweatshirt, like a hug.  God it's cold in here.  His shoulder hurts, pressed awkwardly underneath him, but he doesn't really want to roll over, show his back to the room.  God only knew he'd made enough stupid mistakes today.

Somewhere, someone is snoring.  Unseen, in one of the other holding cells.  Guttural and warbling, like a garbage truck rolling by in the middle of the night.  Steve had said they couldn't hold you for more than twenty-four hours.  How long has it been?  God he's so hungry.  He's so cold.  

He doesn't sleep.  But then he's almost used to that by now.  

 

-

 

At two a.m. they're given breakfast.  At five he's taken to the court ready pens.  He'd spent the time in between watching some guy do push ups and sit ups on the bare concrete floor, carefully curled in on himself to avoid the other people in the cell, who have multiplied overnight.  Sam almost offers to spot him - his form is shit, he's gonna twist his back doing it like that - but doesn't.  

At seven he's taken upstairs and installed in a little room with grimy, clouded windows that Sam can't stop looking at. He hasn't seen daylight since the van ride over here.  Feels like it's been a hundred years.

After a few minutes, the door opens again and a doughy looking white kid comes through.  He looks young enough for it to be his father's suit he's got on.  He settles down at the table across from Sam, holds out a hand, and says, "I'm Foggy."

Sam's looking at the two coffees Foggy's just put down - fancy looking, little hand stamp on the side, god they smell amazing - so it takes him a second to look up.  The name breezes right by him - fine, Foggy, whatever, he's got more important shit to worry about.  "Sam Wilson," he says.  "You my lawyer?"

"Sure hope so," Foggy says with a smile, and pushes one of the coffees over.  "Otherwise I came out to Brooklyn at the asscrack of dawn for nothing." He shuffles through his briefcase, pulls out a manila folder.  The coffee tastes as good as it smells.  It sits uneasily in Sam's empty stomach, bright and acidic.  He puts both hands around the cup, lets the heat soak into his fingers.

"So," Foggy says, sipping at his own drink, "Stop & Frisk gone horribly wrong.  That sucks."

"I didn't do anything," Sam tells him, tight.

Foggy shrugs.  "Says here you assaulted two police officers," he says, tapping the folder in front of him.  He holds up a hand before Sam can say anything to that.  "Good news is, that's not what today's for.  Today all they care about is whether you can be trusted to show up for your court date without the threat of bail hanging over your head.  We can worry about the rest of it later on.  You look great on paper, so with any luck we'll have you out of here and home just in time for me to hit the commuter rush getting back to the city."

"What happens after that?" Sam asks.  His foot shakes, underneath the metal table.  "What happens when I have to come back?"

"Well, it'll be tough," Foggy says.  "Depending on what charges they decide on, it may be a Grand Jury.  They'll try to plea you out first - maybe offer a class D felony instead of your classic B, Assault on a Peace Officer.  Only 7 years, what a bargain."

Sam tries to take a breath, finds that he can't.  Suddenly he's shaking all over.  The world narrows down to a finite point.  Everything else feels dim and cold and far away.  He looks up, looks out those grimy windows.  Something moves, flutters against them; a pigeon, maybe.  He feels warmth in his fingertips from the coffee like they're someone else's hands.  Someone's saying his name.  He looks back.

"Sam," Foggy says again, patient.  "You with me, pal?  You okay?"

"Sorry," Sam says.  He lifts his hands up, rubs them over his face.  Hides behind them for a second, just a second.  "Sorry, I just -"

"I know, it's a lot to take in," Foggy says, when Sam doesn't say anything else.  "But it's gonna be okay.  First off, the whole thing is bullshit.  Like you said, you weren't doing anything - I mean, that's the nature of Stop & Frisk.  But there’s a couple cases pending right now about banning it, and we'll look into the officers involved, see if they have any complaints against them, allegations of abuse or misconduct - see if there's any video from the grocery store or a bystander, check if anything's weird there ... There's a lot of ways this can go that doesn't end with you serving time.  Okay?"

He smiles at Sam.  He's got kind eyes.  

"I wasn't expecting much, from uh," Sam admits - he's not even sure what to call it, what to say, "from someone appointed by the court."

"Oh, I'm not," Foggy says, quickly.  "I'm a friend of Peggy's, she called me up yesterday and let me know her friend needed a guy."

Oh.  "I don't," Sam says, and swallows, reflexive.  "I don't have money to pay you.  I'm a student.  It's all - I'm on the GI Bill, it's all going to school, I don't have any money."

Foggy shrugs, unruffled, like he knew already.  "Well, I could use the practice," he says.  "I'm working at this place downtown that's kiiiiinda soul-sucking and makes me wanna jump off a bridge.  My buddy and I keep talking about starting our own practice but ahhh, you know how it is.  You'd be doing me a favor, Sam, really.  Also, I had my ear talked off last night about how great you are, _which_ , totally unnecessary, I accept on faith that Peggy only knows stellar human beings.  But hey, that could also help a lot in getting the charges reduced or dismissed entirely.  You know, first offender, traumatized vet, great guy, yadda yadda."

"Traumatized vet," Sam echoes.

Foggy doesn't seem to notice; he's glancing down at his wrist.  "Well, we're up.  You ready to get out of here?"

After all that, it's over in about ten minutes.  Sam's ushered into the courtroom and directed to towards a long bench with some other prisoners, right up in front of the judge.  He hears his name being called as he sits down; James, Lou, Steve, Peggy and some people he doesn't know are huddled together towards the back. James and Lou look tense and tired; Steve is twisted around to talk to Peggy, both of them smiling.  

When it's Sam's turn, they don't even read the charges out, just ask, "How do you plead?" and Sam stands up, says, like someone in a movie, "Not guilty."

The judge shuffles through some papers, and before Foggy can stand up too and say what a nice guy Sam is, Sam's released on his own recognizance and told he's free to go.

He follows Foggy in a daze, is hugged and has his back patted and everyone's all smiles, like he doesn't have to come back in fucking _February_ to find out if his whole life will be ruined, to live in suspense for almost six fucking months, like everything's _fine_.  

"I brought you clothes," James says, as they're leaving the courtroom, offering up a black plastic bag.  It's wrapped so tight around his fingers that they look bloodless and dead.  It says _Thank You For Shopping_ in gold letters.  Sam's hands twitch.  He wants to take the bag out of James' hand.  He wants to take James' hand.

"I wanna go home," Sam says, and sticks his hands in his shorts pockets.  His torso's aching from getting kicked and now getting hugged and he just wants to go home, crawl in bed and never come out.

Peggy, Foggy and their friends wander off to find the C train into Manhattan, leaving Sam, Lou, James and Steve to take the 2/3 back deeper into Brooklyn.  Lou's quiet, sticking close to his side, her eyes big and scared.  She looks like she's been crying.  She'd hugged him the hardest and he'd taken it, put his arms around her and focused on breathing slow and even, not letting it show.  James and Steve are talking - about - something, Sam lets it slide over him, whatever, just breathe, slow and even.

The streets are crowded; like Foggy said, they're out just in time to hit the morning commute.  It's quieter on the Brooklyn platform but the station feels crushed by noise, by the sound of hundreds of people trying desperately not to interact with each other.  He feels the slap of shoes over concrete like they're scraping over his spine.  Someone on their platform has their headphones turned up too high, just the faintest thump of sound.  

Should've taken a cab. Why hadn't they just taken a cab?  

It's just a short ride.  Save your money.  You're gonna need it.  There's probably fines and shit.  Like a hospital stay - maybe they charge you for the sandwiches and the juice and the bench you slept on and the shitty EMT visit and for seven fucking years of your life -

"Sam," someone says, and Sam sucks in a breath.  It's James, James is looking at him, looking outright alarmed.  What happened?  Was someone trying to talk to him?  His heart's going crazy, like he's run for miles.  Can they hear it?  Is that why James looks so freaked out?  Fuck.

"Sorry," he says.  "Fuck, I don't have my phone."

The words come out through numb lips.  His tongue feels numb.  James just looks at him, eyes wide, even as Steve asks, "Did you get your Voucher number?  No?  Shit.  What about the officer's name, shield number?"

Sam shakes his head.  He'd looked at it - he remembers her - black woman, tired looking, but there's nothing else.  Just a haze.  She'd said, _tell it to your lawyer, I don't care_.

"You okay?" James asks, in an undertone.  

"We'll call around later, find out where your stuff went," Steve says.  "If it's still at the precinct we can just walk over and get it."

"Sam," Lou says, and touches his elbow.

The train rumbles into the station in a squeal of brakes and a rush of rat-feces-and-tunnel scented air.  Everyone shuffles closer to the yellow line and then to the side, to let people off the train.  Jesus he has to get on that.  He's flanked by James and Lou, Steve directly behind him.  An awkward clump of people walking him into the car. 

"This is Borough Hall," the conductor says, garbled.  "Next stop, Hoyt Street station."

The subway pole is cold and sticky under his hand.  He crosses the other one over his chest, shivering a little.  The thin skin of James’ leather glove brushes against the bottom of Sam's hand. He spent half the night wondering where James was and Sam can barely look at him now.  Every time he does there's these big blue eyes staring back at him, reflecting all the fear that's churning in Sam's guts.  James looks away now too, stares stricken out the train windows at the tunnel blurring by them, both of them silent and awkward.

"Cheer up, guys, you look like someone died," Steve says, and tries a big grin.  "Bucky, he's fine now, you're standing right next to him.  Calm down, alright?  Give him a kiss.  It stresses me out when you guys aren't all over each other."

"Lay off," James mumbles, and doesn't look over at Sam.  His face is red.  Over the muted clatter of the train his arm is whirring, that soft VCR noise.  Steve’s staring up at him, his jaw firmed up but his eyebrows drawn together, worried.

"Hoyt Street," says the conductor, and again, "Hoyt Street."

"What happened to your face, Sam?" Lou asks.  He doesn't see her reaching up towards the bandage on his cheek, and startles at the touch.  

"They, um," Sam says, and finds he lacks the words.  Looks over to find James staring at him, his expression dark.  "It's fine, I'm gonna take a look at it when we get home."

"Jesus," Lou says.  She scowls, lets go of her own subway pole in favor of wrapping her arms around him again.  

He lets her, for a moment - then detaches her gently, murmuring, "I'm gonna fall over, Lou, give a man a break."  

"Nevins Street station," says the conductor.  "Next stop - Atlantic Avenue, Pacific Street."

It feels like everyone's staring at him.  A group of high school kids had got on at Nevins and they're clowning on the other end of the car, laughing.  At their end the silence is thick, oppressive.  Steve’s fidgeting, tapping two fingers on his subway pole, antsy.  He looks at Sam, looks at Lou, looks at the ground.  Looks at James, who is looking at Sam, whenever Sam’s looking away.

"I been arrested loads of times, it's no big deal," Steve says abruptly, to no one in particular.  "Twice at Occupy, once for WTO, last year for - oh man, I can't even remember what that was for.  But it's no big deal. You’ll be fine, Sam.  Foggy’s really good, like _really_ good, and he and Peg go way back.  He’ll take good care of you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam can see Lou staring at Steve with a flat expression.  "What'd you get arrested for?"

"Oh, a bunch of stuff," Steve answers, more cheerful now that someone else is talking.  "Trespassing, obstruction of traffic - those were at Zuccotti Park.  Resisting arrest, always a good one.  I spit on a cop once.  Oh, last year was drunk and disorderly, right Buck?"

"Yep," James says, colorless.  He’s giving Steve a hard look, a minute shake of his head that Sam barely catches.

"Atlantic," says the conductor, and they all shuffle closer together as the train fills.  Someone tries to grab their pole; James blocks them neatly, efficiently - the scuffle over before it begins.

"You spit on a cop," Lou says, as the doors close.  She shakes her head.  "You _spit on a cop_ and my brother gets arrested for going jogging."  

"I wasn’t - that’s not what I meant," Steve says, eyes widening.  Sam presses his hand over his ribs.  His whole body aches.  His heart's going a mile a minute.  It's gonna beat right out of his chest.  Some stranger’s brushing up against him and he curls in on himself, tries to avoid the touch.

"Oh yeah?" Lou says, pushing forward.  Now everyone in the car really is looking at them.  Subtle, corner of the eye glances.  Assessing the threat, whether something bad is gonna happen.  Jesus, he can’t be here any more.  He needs to get off the train.  How much longer is this gonna take.  How much longer until he’s home.  "You ever get a gun pulled on you?  You ever get beaten up by the cops?”

"No," Steve says, staring at his shoes.  "Got desk tickets, each time.  Did some community service."

"That's right," Lou says, and turns away.

“ _Hey_ ,” Steve says, looking back up.  “It’s not like it’s a walk in the park for me either.  You know jail’s not exactly the safest place for trans people, right?  What can happen to people like me if we get put in with the right gender? What -"

"Steve," Sam grits out, "Steve, shut the fuck up."

That gets everyone's attention.  Steve doesn't even say anything.  He looks at Sam, shocked.  

"I don't wanna hear it," Sam says.  "Just fucking stop.  Everyone, just _fucking stop_."

The conductor says, "Bergen Street."

Sam ducks out the closing train doors.  He's not quite quick enough; James makes it onto the platform too.  Through the glass he can see Lou and Steve, their surprised eyes, turning to watch them as the train pulls out of the station.  

James' shoulders are up - posture at the ready.  People flow around him, entirely unconcerned about the pair of them standing stock still on the platform.  

"I can't," Sam says, as soon as he can without shouting, as soon as the rumble of the train has faded.  "I can't deal with your shit on top of mine.  Okay?  I gotta go."

He can see the words hit James - sees him flinch - sees him turn away to try and cover it up, raking his hands through his hair.  "Okay, fine," he says, "fine."

There's a loud, sudden clanging noise as Sam walks away, like James has kicked the trash can on the platform, but Sam doesn't turn around to see.

 

-

 

Later - hours later, after shower and rebandaging his face and Vietnamese delivery and two beers and a nap where Sam doesn't really sleep, but lays nestled in his own bed, covered in blankets, quiet and alone - he answers Lou’s phone.  

"Hey," Sam says.

"Hey," James says, sounding a little startled, which - fair enough, it's the fourth time he's called.  "Hey.  You, uh."

"I'm okay," Sam says.  He's laying on the couch.  His laptop is perched on his stomach, Netflix paused.  On the other end of the couch, Lou's looking up at him over her book, one eyebrow raised.  They're under the same blanket, a thick comforter she dragged off her own bed.  Sam's teacher is not giving him an extension for the presentation he missed yesterday. 10% docked.

"I'm sorry about this morning," James says.  He sounds tired.  "I'm sorry I was weird.  I'm sorry about Steve, too.  He was just trying to lighten the mood, but it, yeah, it didn't work so well.  He went back to the courthouse and got your stuff, so.  We have your phone."

Sam doesn't say anything to that.  He sinks back a little, adjusts the ice pack under his shoulder as he gets more comfortable.  "Can I," James says, and then sighs, frustrated.  

"I don't know what to do," he says, "I don't know what to say, Sam.  I feel like I'm gonna go out of my mind here, and I got no idea what you're thinking or feeling or anything, all that, that ..."  

He trails off.  Sam sighs, sets his laptop on the coffee table.  Moves his feet off Lou’s lap, gives her a little nod and an _okay_ sign, and goes into his bedroom.  Shuts the door behind himself.

It's cool in his room, and mostly quiet.  The lights are off so it's lit up by the streetlights, blue and yellow shadows over the walls.  He sits on the end of his bed, because there's nowhere else to sit.

"Sam?" James asks, tentative.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Sam says, soft.  It’s easier to say it staring up at the blank ceiling of his bedroom than it was thinking it, looking James in the face.  “I just wanna put it in a box and never think about it."

"It doesn't -" James says, and subsides, abruptly.  There's a crackling noise through the phone as he exhales.  "Okay," he says, after a moment, quiet, and then asks, "Look, can I see you?  Please?  I'm just, I'm not - I'm not trying to make you _deal with my shit_ , I just - wanna know you're okay."

Sam lays back on his bed, imagines James' big, warm presence next to him.  Imagines crawling in under the covers together and never coming back out.  "Yeah, okay," he says.  "Yeah, come over."

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a special guest star in this chapter from my series [Kings County](http://archiveofourown.org/series/233079), which is Esther Barnes, the youngest sister of Bucky Barnes. The chapter will still make sense if you haven't read it, but if you're into meticulously researched pre-war Steve/Bucky and wartime Brooklyn, you might be into it.

 

Sam wakes up when the radiator turns off, clucking and groaning as it starts to cool down.  The heating in James' apartment is almost as old as the building itself, and as the nights get colder the radiator's getting louder.  It hisses through the night.  It drips water on the floor.  It chuckles as it warms up and complains for hours as it cools.  It's startled Sam awake a handful of times already, only just into October - his heart jumping and his nerves crackling, James sleeping right through it the way he sleeps through just about everything.

But it's just Sam in bed this morning, James' side cool to the touch.  He rolls onto his side, listens.  The bedroom door's open just a crack, and James and Steve are in the living room, talking.

"Is it ready yet?" Steve asks.

"Yeah," James says, "Gimme a sec."

There's a little clicking noise, of metal and glass.  James usually gives Steve his shot, some sort of ritual worked out between them a long time before Sam was on the scene.  He's seen it dozens of times, saw it the first morning he stayed late enough to eat breakfast with James, and see Steve wander out in his little shorts to sleepily hand James a vial and two needles.

It takes longer to have James do it, since you have to warm T up to be able to inject it.  James sticks it in a pocket, if he's got pockets - or just down into his underwear if he doesn't - rather than roll the vial around in his one warm palm.  But Sam's never asked.

"I told your ma I'd help clean the house this morning," Steve's saying.  "But I gotta be out of here by 5 to help set up.  How many people do you think'll come from the barbecue?"

"Hold still," James tells him, and there's a moment of silence - replacing the big needle with a smaller one, depressing the plunger to get out any air.  Steve waiting patiently, one hand already pulling his shorts down, baring one cheek for the needle.  "I dunno, maybe fifteen?  Probably not the old people.  I think Esther's the only one who's keen on seein a buncha titties tonight."

"Ahh," Steve says, dissatisfied.  "Well try and get 'em to come if you can, we got the whole place."

"Oh yeah?  All right, you're good," and a little slapping sound, James' hand on Steve's ass.  Sam rolls over onto his stomach, faces away from the door.  His ear presses against the pillow, muffles the sound of the radiator and their voices, just a little.

"You nervous?" Steve asks 

"Nah," James says, "Well, maybe.  S'okay though, she's gonna love it."

"Well don't stare too long in the mirror, you gotta be there by 6," Steve says, and James laughs.  

"My ma's gonna do it," he says, "She's over the fuckin moon, says she thought she was gonna die of old age before I'd ever let her."

"I'm a fuckin genius," Steve says.  "I'm the favorite son.  Seriously though, if -"

"I'll be fine," James says.  Soft noises, the squeak of the couch.  "It's my ma, the only person I trust more than her is you."

Sam’s eyes open, stare blankly at the white wall.  It's quiet after that.  More couch sounds, for a while.  Cleaning noises eventually, the sink in the kitchen running.  Sam dozes a little, because he can, because no one's asking him to do anything.  He's mostly awake when the bedroom door creaks open, but he keeps his eyes closed, lays boneless as James slips back under the covers and wraps himself around Sam.

It's good to be held.  The touch of James' cool skin on his naked back, warming up as he cuddles close.  Sam comes alive enough to tangle his fingers with James', tilt his chin to let James press a line of humid kisses along his throat.  

"Don't you got things to be doing?" Sam asks, eyes closed.  

"Not for hours," James says, against the nape of Sam's neck.  "Come on, fool around with me."  He puts a hand on Sam's cock, still soft, to emphasize the point.  Feels good to be held there too.  Good enough that he tilts his hips up obligingly, lets James stroke his cock, his stomach.  

"You're so good," James tells him, even though Sam's not doing anything but lying there and letting himself be touched.  "You're amazing.  I want your dick in me, Sam.  Can I?  You can just lay back, I'll do all the work.  Please?"

"What's got you all worked up," Sam breathes, sucking in a little breath as James slips a hand into his shorts, grips Sam's cock firm in his hand.  He's propped up on his elbow, the prosthetic a soft whir just above Sam's head.  

"Just want you," James tells him.

He does do all the work, like he said he would - sits straddling Sam's waist while he fingers himself, sloppy with the lube, his eyes raking up and down Sam's body.  Sam stretches his hands up over his head, looks back.  It’s been a few days since he’s fucked James like this so it takes a few minutes for James to get there, the head of his cock bobbing above Sam’s belly as he tilts his hips forward.  His eyes close, his mouth open in that little half smile Sam loves - which grows into a real one when he takes hold of Sam’s cock, starts working him inside.  

“Feel good?” Sam asks, his hands still up over his head, flexing around the cheap IKEA headboard.

“Feels good,” James echoes softly, rocking forward a little bit, eager for it.  “So good, Sam.”

“Touch yourself,” Sam tells him.  James has one hand on Sam’s cock, holding him steady, so the only option is the prosthetic.  But he doesn’t hesitate, running his fingertips over his chest, tugging at his nipples, pinching one between two shining metal fingers.  He opens his eyes just wide enough to look at Sam, check if Sam likes what he sees.

Sam does.  He looks good.  He smells good.  He feels good, hot and slick around Sam’s cock.  There’s a little sweat in the hollow of his throat.  He whines a little, helpless sounding, and it hits Sam hard enough that he has to take his hands off the headboard and put them on James’ hips, hold him still so he can shove in the rest of it the way, too fast the way James _likes_ it, so he can watch the way James’ smile dissolves into that shocked, open-mouthed look, head tipping back as Sam bounces him on his cock.

“Yeah,” he groans, “yeah, fuck,” just soft happy nonsense, lighting Sam all the way up.  So Sam plants his feet on the bed and gives it to him, hard; digs blunt fingernails into the ridge of James’ hipbones, clawing bright red lines into all that pink skin.  The noise James makes is _amazing_.  “Fuck fuck don’t _stop_ ,” he stutters, bracing one hand on Sam’s knee so he can wrap the other around his own cock, hips jerking forward to get Sam deeper.  He’s hardly bouncing at all anymore, the two of them locked tight together in perfect sync, driving hard and inevitable towards coming, _fuck_ , Sam’s gonna _come_ , and just as he starts to tip over that edge James gasps loud and long and comes all over Sam’s chest, dragging Sam panting and shaking over to the other side.   

He sags, heavy and sticky onto Sam’s chest, and they wrap their arms around each other, so close he thinks he can feel James’ heart thudding double time against his own, and it’s all perfect until he opens his eyes and sees the bedroom door standing wide open.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, and James says, “What?” muffled against Sam’s chest, and then, “Oh.”

Steve's in the far corner of the dining room when they come out, a little barbell in each hand, going through his shoulder exercises.  He makes a face at them.  He's blushing.  "Whyn'cha close the door next time," he complains, and Sam feels his face get hot even as James just laughs. 

Downstairs is a flurry of activity, which James promptly checks out of - heading straight out the back door and into the garden while Steve dives into last-minute cleaning and Sam is sent on a beer run to the wholesale depot down on Albany.  When he gets back the house is sparkling and James is out back, smoking a cigarette out in the sun with two old ladies.  One is maybe in her seventies, steely eyed and tall, who is introduced as Aunt Leba.  The other is the woman of the hour: the famous Great Aunt Esther.  

She's tiny, especially sitting in between James and Aunt Leba, maybe only Steve's height - tough to tell with a fluffy halo of curly white hair floating above her head.  She's got a blanket wrapped around her shoulders despite the warm air, and those bright blue Barnes eyes are magnified cartoonishly by a pair of enormous bifocals.  He's conscious, in the corner of his eye, of James biting his lip - watching nervously.

“Nice to meet you, Esther,” Sam says, as he bends close to kiss her cheek.  “Happy twenty fifth birthday.”

She _guffaws_ , no other word for it, right in his ear - hearty and happy sounding - startling the shit out of him.  He doesn’t flinch away but he does flinch, at the sound of it and at her little, bony hands coming up and framing his face.

“It is _lovely_ to meet you, Sammy," she says.  "I've been pestering Jim for ages to bring you for a visit, but _someone_ says he's allergic to Queens."

James groans, and Leba finally cracks a smile.  "I saw you two weeks ago," James complains, which he hadn't told Sam about.  

"I didn't rate an invite," Sam tells Esther, sadly.  She lets him ease away and take the last rickety seat around the little garden table.  

"He's scared we'll gang up on him," Leba says, which is fair. They're both giving James the sort of mean old lady looks that, coming from Sam's grandmother, would've already had him scurrying off to a flower shop to make up for whatever he'd just done.  James, outweighing each by at least seventy pounds, looks like he's considering it.   

"Aw," he says, faintly, and Sam takes pity on him, leaning over and brushing a kiss over his cheek.  When he sits back he catches Esther's eye by accident.  She doesn't say anything, but she winks - actually _winks_ at him, and Sam laughs a little, unexpectedly charmed.

James pulls a cigarette out of his pack, but it's still in his hand when Great Aunt Esther pins him with a look.  "Hand it over, Jim," she says, and he ducks his head.

"It's not, uh," James says, and Sam sees the problem, hand rolled and pinched between thumb and pointer finger to be lit.  "It's not tobacco, Aunt Esther."

One thick white eyebrow disappears into the cloud of hair, and Sam's prepared to really see some old lady justice get done, but she only says, impatiently, "I got eyes and a nose, I know what that is.  A little bit's not gonna kill me, but having to listen to your Aunt Gay talk about her damn colitis again might."

So James laughs, hands the joint over.  He lights it for her, and stays leaning until she puts her arm around his shoulders, as far over as she can reach.  Surreptitiously, Sam sneaks his phone out of his pocket, snaps a photo of the two of them: Esther exhaling a thin plume of smoke, chin tilted up to avoid blowing it in James' face.  The sunlight catches them from the side, making James' eyes nearly colorless, highlighting the soft shape of his upturned mouth.

"Don't you put that up on the Facebook, Sammy," Esther says as she passes James the joint, "I got a reputation to maintain."

"I got glaucoma," Leba says, and leans across the little table to intercept.  "Jim, I brought some sherry, be a good boy and pop that open."

"Okay," James agrees, drowsily, but stays put until Great Aunt Esther presses a kiss against his forehead and releases him.  He brushes a hand over Sam's shoulder as he goes.

"Would you like some, Sammy?" Esther asks, and then, "Ooh, it's gone out - Leba, sunshine, you don't have any matches, do you?"

"That's all right," Sam says, "it's a little early for me anyway."

"Suit yourself," she says, and smiles.  It's a disconcerting smile - a kind one, of course, but strange regardless, and it takes Sam a moment to figure out why.

There's an oddness to meeting her that's more than just - seeing in the flesh a person whose face is all over those black and white photos downstairs, or the clear family resemblance between Esther and her namesake and Hannah and James.  There was another photo, one that's not in a place of pride in Hannah's dining room.

The image swims up from some deep part of his memory, disconnected.  It's the kind of picture that always seems to make it on those Best Of, clickbait sort of lists.  Top 100 Photos of the 20th Century.  These Historical Photos Will Blow Your Mind.  Powerful Images of World War II.  It's in the history books too, Sam's high school textbook - iconic, like the dead soldiers of Buna, or the flag being raised at Iwo Jima, or Captain America at the Battle of the Bulge.  There's not always a credit to it, or context, but he can picture it as clear as day: a young girl in a black dress, standing in a sea of black dresses and coats, her blonde hair and white face ghostly in contrast.  In the foreground there's something rolling by, draped in an American flag.  They'd marched an empty coffin up 5th Avenue in Manhattan for tens of thousands to gather and salute the fallen son of New York.  The girl is saluting too, even though her whole face is clenched up tight: eyes shut, teeth bared, chin lifted and jaw jutted forward, tears flowing down her face.   _The Grief of America_ , Sam's seen it titled, but also _Essie Barnes Attends the Funeral of Captain America_.

The rest of the Barnes family was there too, dark haired and anonymous and probably just as lost in grief.  Sam's grandmother had been there too that day, had pointed herself out once as one black dot in a sea of black dots, from a wide shot taken from the corner of 5th Avenue and 52nd St.  

You’d never know it was the same woman, Sam thinks.  The lines on her face look like they're from a lifetime of smiling.  

People start arriving soon after that.  It's impossible to stay attached to James - who is more or less attached himself to Great Aunt Esther, swamped with birthday guests - so Sam makes himself useful inside, assembling platters of hamburger toppings.  The house fills with noise, rising and falling like waves as assorted cousins and friends come in and out of the garden.  He hasn't met most of them and no one seems especially curious as to what that lone black guy is doing at their party.  But maybe he's just not overhearing it; there's a lot more Yiddish being spoken than he would have expected.  

He eats his burgers next to Esther the younger, on the crumbling low wall in the garden.  She's got her hair up in curlers and isn't drinking, that Sam can see.  "You're coming tonight, right?" she asks him, abruptly, right as he stuffs most of his second burger into his mouth.  

"Mmrggff," he says, trying to swallow, but it's enough of an answer that she nods, jaw firmed.

"I mean, of course you're coming," she says, "Sorry, I guess I'm just nervous.  It's my first time, you know - as part of the show, not just crawling around in a G string and pasties, picking up the other performers' clothes off the stage or whatever."

Sam gives her a pleading look, and definitely doesn't look down at her breasts.  "I'm not even taking off most of my clothes tonight," she continues, oblivious.  "So what's there to be scared of, anyway?  Did Steve show you the choreography?  Did you think it was good?  Do you think Aunt Esther will be surprised?  Do you think she'll like it?'

Sam swallows, takes a sip of his beer, clears his throat.  "How's school," he says.

Later, after he finishes eating, and he and Esther chat about Hunter and midterms, and then she runs off in a rush to get everything together for her performance, he sits for a little while in the deepening shade, looking around.  He hasn't seen Steve for a while.  James is still over with Great Aunt Esther, both of them listening patiently to the unfortunate Aunt Gay.

There's not too many kids, he thinks, especially compared with his own family gatherings.  There's a pair of teenagers sitting inside who might be twins, and a girl about Sam's age with a baby, but that's mostly it. Makes for a quiet party.  There's not even any music, just the hum of the neighborhood, cars swishing by a few blocks over up on Atlantic Avenue.

"You want help with dishes?" Sam asks, wandering back inside on a mission for beer.  Hannah, up to her elbows in soap and water, shakes her head and then tilts her head toward him, questioning.

"Oh, what time is it?" she asks, and Sam looks at his wrist before he looks at the grimy plastic clock they've got above the stove.

"About 1600," he answers, without thinking.  It takes her half a beat to do the math and then she clicks her tongue.

"Would you mind sending my son in?" she asked.  "Don't take no for an answer."

James looks impossibly grim when he sees Sam trudge down the back steps, like he already knows Sam’s coming for him.  “Firing squad’s ready,” Sam tells him, and James tips his head back and groans, heartfelt.  

“Aunt Esther, Aunt Gay,” he says formally, standing, “it’s been nice knowing you.  Sam, my TV is yours, don’t let Steve do anything weird with my shit.  My stuff.  Sorry, Aunt Esther.”

He squeezes Sam's hand as he passes, and ducks in to give him a kiss on the cheek.  Sam turns his face into it, catches James' mouth instead.  He feels James exhale, a little surprised, and a brief smile flickers over his face.  "Everything okay?" Sam asks, soft.  James grimaces.

"Yeah, it's," he says, and rolls his eyes towards Esther.

"There's a surprise for me tonight," Esther says, primly.  "Jim is involved, Steve is involved, Hannah is involved, it will not be _here_ , it is not _technically_ a stripper, and that is all the hints I was able to pry out of him."

"Save me," James whispers, like he didn't do it to himself, so Sam just raises an eyebrow.  James sighs, squares his shoulders like he really is going to face a firing squad, and goes to find his mother.

"Oh no," Esther says, when Sam turns to follow James back into the house.  She pats the seat James has just vacated, and smiles at him with two rows of beautifully white dentures.  "Sit right down here, Sammy, I haven't gotten a chance to get to know you just yet."

"Uh oh," Sam says, and obeys.  Aunt Gay is on Esther's other side and is cut from the conversation by a sharply turned back.

"Do you have any tattoos?" Esther inquires, and Sam laughs, tries to hide it behind his hand.

"No ma'am," he says.

"How about piercings?" she says.  "And call me Esther, lamb.  Or Aunt Esther, that's fine too."

"No piercings either," Sam says, dutifully.  

Esther shakes her head.  "Well, I already know just about everything else about you,” she sighs.  “I’m incorrigibly nosy.  By the way, do _you_ know what my surprise is?”

“I didn’t know there was a surprise,” Sam says truthfully.  “I didn’t even know we were going out.”

Esther narrows her eyes at him, and Sam feels a genuine pang of fear in his heart.  “You be honest with me,” she says.  “I _hate_ surprises.”

“It’s a burlesque show,” Sam says.  She nods, and then gives him a curious glance.  “I’m uh, not too into surprises either,” he says, to the unspoken question.

She looks at him, steady, and Sam’s heart gives him another squeeze.  For a moment it really does feel like she knows everything about him.

She reaches over and pats his knee.  She smells soft and powdery, like lavender.  “Well, you stick close to me,” she tells him.  “Keep me from gettin scared to death if one of them thinks it’s funny to jump out of a cake.  Hopefully Jim won’t be too jealous if I’ve got you on my arm all night.”  She winks at him again, and this time Sam laughs out loud.

“You guys are pretty close, aren’t you,” he says, taking a sip from his beer.  She’s got a glass of something pinkish, maybe the sherry Aunt Leba brought, and all around them the party swirls on.  It’s dying down a bit, now that the food’s been eaten and there’s been a few hours of drinking in the sun.  Sam has abruptly become the youngest person in sight.

“Jim’s a good boy,” Esther says, with the kind of confidence only someone’s grandmother - or great aunt, apparently - could have.  “Eezee is too, she’s a good girl.  They lived with me for a long time, you know.  In this house,” she gestures with the sherry, spilling a little onto her fingertips.  “It used to be my house, you know.  But I couldn’t manage the stairs anymore, and it made more sense to move out to Forest Hills with Leba.  Which is quite close, especially if you take Steve’s car to come visit.”

“We’ll come visit,” Sam promises with a smile, and she leans over and pats his hand.

"You're a good boy too," she says, and it - it holds him for a minute, the easy way she says it, the way her smile lights up her whole face.

"How did you," he asks, and hesitates - trying to think of how to put it.  The words that come to mind feel so inadequate.  "How did you get through all that?  Back in the day?"

He sees her eyes widen, and he has a moment of panicked regret that he’s said something terrible, that he’s overstepping.  But she only purses her mouth, giving the question a moment of consideration.  "Well," she says, "there wasn't much other choice, was there?  We had two little babies in the house - that's Leba and Jim's granddad James, who passed away eight years ago - and babies don't care much if you're sad.  Besides, I -"

She sighs, and takes a little sip of her drink.  Sam holds himself still, listening. Across the yard people are laughing - cousins, friends of Aunt Esther's, maybe - but she doesn't seem to hear.  "Sammy, I hope you won't mind if I say something rude," she says, finally, and Sam laughs.

"I wouldn't mind it at all," he says, which is true.

"I wish Captain America would just _die_ already," she says, all in a rush, and gives him a brief nod: _there, I said it_.  It's not what he's expecting and for a second he gapes at her, genuinely shocked.  Her jaw is firm, and when she gives that little nod again her cloud of white hair shakes with it.  "I always did, once the war ended.  You know, the first time I sued the government was in 1951, which was two years after my mother passed.  They were sending soldiers into Korea and there was Captain America on the planes and the recruitment posters, and it was _terrible_.  We thought the world had finally forgotten about Cap and we could move on with our lives, but there he was, and every time America decides to go picking fights they trot him out again. It makes me sick.  If I had won copyright you'd never see a single red white and blue shield again."

Sam takes a long drink of his beer.  Considers having to see Riley's face everywhere, for the rest of his life - on tee shirts and protest signs and on the backs of soldiers who weren't gonna make it home.  "Christ," he says, softly, lanced through at the thought of it.  "I can't even imagine."

She gasps, very soft.  "Oh Sammy, don't," she says, like she's really concerned he'll try.  "It wouldn't do you any good."

 

-

 

Sam rides in the cab over with Great Aunt Esther, Aunt Leba, Hannah and an ancient man whose name Sam’s failed to catch, clutching a yarmulke to his head like they’re about to take off at the races instead of moving sedately down Prospect Place towards Washington Avenue.  Aunt Esther’s over the moon.

“I haven’t been to a bar in ages,” she gushes.  Hannah grimaces.

“You’re not missing much,” she tells Esther, and then, in an undertone, “Oh, don’t give me that look.  You want to hold my fifteen year chip?”

There’s a pair of cops down the street from the bar.  When he sees them Sam feels hot and cold all over.  There’s not usually any cops on Washington, not like there are on Nostrand or Kingston.  He thinks someone’s about to call them over, ask what he thinks he’s doing getting out of the cab with so many nice old white folk, but no one does.  Slinking into the bar feels like a victory, and then like hot shame, and he heads to the bar for a round of drinks rather than let Great Aunt Esther see it on his face.

James is nowhere to be seen, Esther and Steve neither, but at the bar is Natasha, already dressed in a spangly USO outfit.  "So I'm guessing this is tonight's theme," Sam says, gesturing at her clothes.

"We're spanning the century," she replies, and leans up to give him a kiss on the cheek.  She grew up in Queens and sounds like it, some sort of infinitesimal shift of accent from James and his family.  He's seen her a few times since they took ayahuasca together, but not for a few months; he hasn't been going out much these days, to the point where even Steve's noticed, and teased him for becoming as much of a homebody as James is.  This is the most social activity he's had in weeks and he can already feel it, is already thinking longingly of home and bed, only a few blocks away.

The bar’s filling up, family members from the barbecue mixing in with the folks who usually frequent The Way Station, regulars enough to be friends of the burlesque troop and Steve himself, Sam supposes.  He’d met a lot of them, right when Sam was still coming here weekly for Steve’s shows, and there’s some hello’s and hi’s exchanged as he waits for his drinks.  

Angie and Peggy are over at the other end of the bar.  Angie's obligingly taking a photo for Aunt Leba and Hannah in front of the bathroom, which is built to look like a TARDIS.  He thinks about going to say hello to them - he likes Angie, even if he’s picked up on James’ wariness towards Peggy and never quite knows what to say to her - but he’d talked to Foggy a few days ago about the case, the delay in obtaining the surveillance footage from the Key Foods camera, and they’d probably want to hear about it.  When the bartender sets his drinks down Sam grabs them, keeps his head down, and pushes through the crowd back to Aunt Esther’s side.

The old people - more than Steve had thought would come - are arranged in the seats up front near the little stage, everyone else crowding in behind them, standing room only.  Sam's got a rock star seat up front with Esther, who’d rolled her eyes at him when he’d tried to stay in the back.

The first song is "The Star Spangled Man With A Plan," of course - set as if backstage at one of Cap's USO shows.  A brand new showgirl, trying to get dressed but tripping all over a stage crowded with props, only managing to tear all of her clothes off along carefully planned lines.  She almost manages to set her hair on fire getting the sparklers lit, but finishes her number beaming to beat the band, giving those little jumps on her tiptoes that send her tits and tassels spiraling.  No one's laughing harder than Aunt Esther, who jumps out of her chair at the end to give the girl a hug, that cloud of white hair fitting neat between the glittery tassels.

Sam pulls his phone halfway out of his pocket, sends a text to James.   _Are you actually here?  What’s the surprise?_   

Gets a Snapchat back a minute later, a closeup of an olive drab collar and a big toothy grin.   _That’s not an answer >:(_, Sam taps out, but before he even hits send there’s another Snapchat, a video this time: Steve looking into a mirror to do up the collar of a white shirt, the thud of the music playing out front coming faintly from the speaker of his phone, a minute out of synch.

 _It better be a good surprise_ , he types, and adds _Aunt Esther says no jumping out of cakes._

 _:D:D:D:D_ , James says.

The next act is jangly Bob Dylan tune, big curly afro and bell bottoms, and the girl finishes her act by triumphantly lighting on fire the bra she’d just taken off.  It’s quickly extinguished in a bucket of sand placed helpfully on the side of the stage, and then she gets another big hug from Aunt Esther, who Sam’s starting to suspect is a dirty old lady.

The next number Sam escapes to the bar for a beer and a glass of “Whatever they have in the way of wine please, Sammy, something sweet.”  He manages to get out of a real conversation with Angie but not doing a shot with her and Peggy, who gives him a fierce hug he mostly doesn't cringe from.  He’s starting to feel everything he’s been drinking all day, his stomach fizzy with beer and now the sugary queasiness of the shot.

He wonders how long they really need to stay, after whatever Aunt Esther’s surprise is.  How long James will want to stay.  Even with everyone in the bar focused on the show, it’s just loud and cramped and he’d rather be at home, curled up in bed with James where it’s quiet.  He can’t want to hang out too long; he hasn’t even been around for most of the party.

The lights go down, and a single spotlight appears.  It’s Natasha, lounging up against the side of the DJ booth, the microphone loose in her hand.  "Thank you all for coming out tonight,” she says.  Under the lights, she glitters like a disco ball.  “Before I introduce our last number, I wanted to pay tribute to the birthday lady, the reason we're all here tonight.  She was Brooklyn hip before hipsters, B-boys or beat poets, and having known her since I was a kid I can tell you she's cooler than any of you other motherfuckers in here.  Happy eighty eighth birthday, Esther Barnes!  Here's to eighty eight more!"

"God forbid," Esther mutters reprovingly, in Sam's ear.  She's tense, next to him: one hand folded into Hannah's, the other clenched in a fist on her lap.  Sam puts an arm around her chair, just barely brushing her narrow shoulders, and she flashes a quick smile up at him.

"Put your hands together for Sandy Stiletto, making her debut performance tonight - and that GI _oh my_ : The Big Reveille!"

The music kicks in, soft brushes on a snare drum, the sort of kicky, jazzy thing you tap a toe to, which is exactly what Esther’s doing when she steps out from behind the ratty velvet curtain, tucking it behind herself and staring dreamily up towards the stage lights.  She’s dressed in a pair of worn coveralls, smudged with grease, and a pair of thick leather work gloves.  She closes her eyes to take them off, one by one, throwing them carelessly onto the stage, hips moving.  Her fingernails flash in the lights - _I get too hungry for dinner at eight_ \- as she starts to unbutton the coveralls, tugging on each inch in time to the beat. _I never bother with people I hate_ -

At Sam’s side, Aunt Esther starts laughing, uproarious.  “That’s me!” Sam hears her say to Leba, "That's me!"  And it is - she’s styled like the LIFE Magazine photos hung up on Hannah’s walls, her hair carefully pinned and rolled, makeup like an old Hollywood movie star.  As Esther sneaks the coveralls down one shoulder and back up, she pauses to touch gently at her hair, make sure it’s correct, and Aunt Esther laughs again, clapping.

On stage, Esther doesn’t see the velvet curtain lift, or see Steve duck through it.  Steve looks like a picture from the history books: his hair neatly parted, his shirt too wide for his shoulders, his suspenders hitching threadbare trousers up to his belly button.  His eyes widen when he sees her dancing, theatrical, staggering back against the curtain and hiding behind it - and the audience laughs.  That startles her, enough that she drops the beat and jumps when she sees Steve standing behind her.

They share a smile.  It’s a sweet smile - but when she steps forward, Steve steps back, and they circle around each other on the narrow stage.  Under the coverall her bare shoulders draw the eye, the briefest teasing glimpse of a glittery bodice as she moves, and Sam can see Steve's eyes dart down, sneaking peeks, an _aw shucks_ grin on his face.

Sam sneaks a glance over at Aunt Esther.  Does it bother her? She doesn't look bothered.  She's got one hand pressed over her heart, smiling mistily.  What had she thought of Steve Rogers, growing up?  Everyone around them is laughing, indulgent and happy - in on the cultural joke.  They cheer when Esther shakes and shimmies out of the coveralls, stepping delicately free of the wide legs to show off a sequin party dress.  Hesitantly, Steve offers a shimmy of his own, and the audience claps as he grows braver, starts to dance along with her.  

Then, finally, Steve’s arm around her waist, hesitant - her arm around his shoulders, their hands linked together as she teaches him the steps, the soft sway of hips.  Great Aunt Esther sighs, happy, the light reflecting off the spangles of Esther’s dress glittering across her face.  She's singing along with the words, singing _lovely, never ever change, keep that breathless charm_.  And that’s what Sam’s watching - the light on Esther’s dress, the smile on her face - so he’s not looking when the curtain moves again and Bucky Barnes steps through.

The front row gasps.  The back of the room applauds.  Bucky looks out over the audience, touches two fingers to the brim of his cap.  His eyes gleam as he takes in the audience reaction, tucks his hands into the pockets of his olive drab dress uniform.  Lingers on Aunt Esther, ramrod straight in her chair, both hands clasped over her mouth.  Sam doesn't blame her a bit.

They're hardly identical - James' chin is missing that famous cleft, and his eyes aren’t the same shape, but in the soft stage lighting, the backdrop of red and velvet, there's only a shining metal hand to tell him that this is not in fact Bucky Barnes.  His smile is wide and warm as he offers a hand to his sister, dances neat circles around the little stage with her.  

The audience is quiet; the feel of the room changed when James stepped through the curtain.  Off to the side of the stage, Steve is watching James and Esther dance.  He's got a look on his face that Sam's seen before, mostly when Steve and James argue: something intent and unnameable.  

The song shifts again.  Esther tips up on her toes - gives James a hug, whispers something in his ear, and then moves away.  Glancing over her shoulder at Steve, standing against the wall.  Stepping to the side, letting James move closer.  

There's a moment - just the slightest hesitation - where Steve looks up at Bucky, and Bucky looks back at Steve - and then Steve takes his hand, and Bucky draws him in.  It's not the light, easy steps he danced with Esther; James tucks Steve close against him, brings their joined hands up and holds them over his own heart.  

They sway, step two three, a quick spin like they're Fred and Ginger in one of those old movies Sam's mom likes so much, _all week long I dreamed about our Saturday date, don't you know that Sunday morning you can sleep late?_  They hold each other's eyes like they're the only people in all the world - and that's what it feels like too, watching them up on the stage.

What was it that James had said, at the Captain America memorial?   _They were so in love.  He loved Steve Rogers so much_.

There's a soft sound, at Sam's side.  The quietest, hiccuping noise, muffled by two thin, old hands pressed against soft, powdered skin.  Behind her thick glasses, pale in the gold light of the stage, Esther's eyes are luminous, and her face is covered in tears.  She's sobbing, her shoulders drawn up tight even as Hannah puts an arm around her, murmurs into her ear.  And Sam, next to her, is frozen.  All he can do is watch while Sinatra sings, _give me five minutes more, only five minutes more.  Let me stay, let me stay in your arms_.

That's when Bucky notices Esther crying desperately in the front row, and he lets go of Steve like he's been shocked.  He steps off the stage and goes to his knees right in front of them, reaching up towards his aunt.  She moves, jerkily fast, and knocks the cap off his head, clutching at him.

Sam sucks in a breath, reflexively - sees James' eyes go wide and glassy as Esther holds him fast, one hand on either side of his head, combing her fingers through his short, slicked back hair - and has a moment of sheer, numbing panic when he imagines James knocking her away, _hurting her_.  But James stays still, panting, open mouthed, and lets her examine him.  Steve and Esther are crowding in behind them, everyone is staring at them, and then Esther sobs aloud for real and flings her arms around James' neck.

Sam stumbles, getting up; trips over the leg of his chair.  It's hot in the little bar, and crowded and noisy and _fuck_ no one's _getting out of his way_ , and anger swells up hot and sudden in his chest but then he's through, he's outside in the cool air: Brooklyn sounds, the bus whooshing by, music from the empanada spot next door, the clink of forks and knives on plates from the restaurant across the street, too soft to actually hear.  A second later he's whirling around, looking for the cops that had been out there earlier, but they're gone now: thank god.  Thank god.

He stands there for a while, trying to catch his breath.  Behind him he can hear the music start back up.  Show's over, let's party.  Some friends of Steve's that he doesn't know come out and stand next to the door, smoking cigarettes.  They give him a curious glance but don't approach.  Sam turns his back, stares out at the street, tries to project _I'm fine_.

"That was so cute," one girl says.  "I felt like I was watching a musical.  I kept expecting like all the other performers to pop out and do a big musical number."

"That would've been awesome," someone agrees.

The music swells and drops: someone else has come out of the bar.  "Hey, you look great," the girl says.  "Did you guys make that costume?  It looks great.  You look like the real thing."

"Aw, thanks," James says.  His voice is mellow and sweet.  It's never stopped surprising Sam, how softly he speaks.

He flinches when James touches his shoulder, even though Sam knew he was there, could feel him draw close.  It makes James flinch too and pull his hand away, scratch under his ear to hide the movement.  "You okay?" he asks.  "You kind of uh, you got out of there real quick."

Sam can feel his heartbeat, thudding in his neck.  "I know, it got real intense," James says, and his fingers move under the rim at the back of his cap, chasing after a real itch now.  

Purposeful, Sam reaches for him.  James ducks back, an awkward little smile on his face.  He takes the cap off, tips his chin left and then right so Sam can see his haircut.  "Whaddaya think?" he asks.  Still with that little smile.  "Feels kinda weird."

"Looks a lot different," Sam says, because it does.  He looks like a different person.

James frowns.  He's twisting his cap around and around in his hands.  "Hey, you mad about something?  What's wrong?"

For a moment Sam's so angry he can hardly see.  He looks away, watches some folks come out of the empanada place, drunkenly weaving a little.  "Why are you mad?" James says, and steps closer.

Sam takes a step back.  "You upset your Aunt," he says, low so the people at the door don't hear him.  

"What?" James asks, baffled.  "You serious?  She's okay.  She loved it.  She's so fuckin happy right now.  Said it was the only nice surprise she's ever had."

"Didn't look that way to me," Sam says.  "Maybe it looked different up on the dance floor."

James opens his mouth, but then stops - turns away and _rolls his eyes_.  Sam's hands ball up into fists.  "Yeah, whatever," he mutters.  "Guess you know better than I do.  Must feel pretty good being right all the time."

He waves a hand when Sam tries to say something, already stepping backwards, back towards his family and the bar.  "You, uh, you come back in when you're ready," James says.  "Take your time.  I'll order a beer for you."

Sam watches the door close behind him.  Through the glass front he can see Steve, cozy in the corner booth with both Esthers. He watches James slide in across the red leather, put an arm over Steve's shoulders.  Steve looks over his shoulder, looks at Sam standing outside for moment.  Looks away.

There's a pain in Sam's stomach.  A low, heavy pain in his gut.  Sam touches it, presses tentatively with his palm, and waits for it to go away.  


 


	11. Chapter 11

 

But it doesn’t.  It doesn’t go anywhere.  It festers.  

Sam goes back home for Thanksgiving, spends an hour that night on the phone with James back in Brooklyn, like teenagers.  He goes to class.  Goes out sometimes, not often.  Usually just in the neighborhood - in _his_ neighborhood, the one he lives in with Lou, where there aren't cops lingering around every corner.  James doesn't like Prospect Heights too much but he puts up with it, mostly without complaining.  

They fight a lot anyway.  

About dumb shit, mostly.  Little things that set Sam off, a lot of times.  Sometimes it feels like everything sets him off these days.  Riding the subway is an exercise in torture.  Delays on the train.  People that push their way into the car without waiting for other people to get off.  Those fucking assholes who keep a big backpack on their shoulders in a crowded train, shoving everyone else up against each other.  It's a relief to be done with school for the year, to not have to go into the city where everything is loud and pushy and dirty and crowded.  

He tries.  He tries to be good.  He tries to be calm and friendly and happy the way everyone expects him to.  When he's impatient they all look at him like he's done something wrong - Lou, his folks, Steve, even James sometimes - so he tries to be good.  He tries to keep it to himself.  

He even spends the anniversary of Riley's death going apple picking in New Jersey with James's family.  And no one knows.  Not even James.  It's the very end of the season and the day is an endless stretch of cold sunshine and the rustle of dry corn stalks.  They mug for Hannah's camera, eat some cider donuts, spend the evening in Hannah's kitchen watching her bake pies.  He feels proud of himself that night, a little drunk on the whiskey he and Steve had poured into their cider.  He'd gotten through it and no one had known.

But it's only a few weeks later that it all blows up in his face. 

They're at a Cap movie marathon in Williamsburg that Steve's been hyped about for weeks.  It's been snowing off and on since morning but it's warm and cozy inside the winery hosting it, which is a big warehouse sort of space with exposed brick, an open fireplace, and a big projector screen taking up all of one wall.  

They've been there for a while - got all the way through _Project: Super Soldier_ , a hard hitting action flick Sam remembers vaguely from the summer he was twenty one and in stifling love with this friend of a friend of Lou's, who broke his heart when she said she couldn't be with a soldier.  The movie's worse in hindsight, opening up with Betty Carver in a crop top wielding a machine gun, played by Jessica Alba.  But Sam wins a round of bingo in the first hour, when Skeet Ulrich and an uncomfortably blonde Brendan Fraser stare deeply into each other's eyes, breathlessly panting, and discuss the depth of Rogers' love for Carver.

"You _little bitch_ ," Jim hisses, with more venom than bingo really warrants.  "What was your last square?"

"Hashtag no homo," Sam answers, and takes a sip of his winnings.  Even the drinks are Cap themed.  He’d won The Spirit of America - apple bourbon, honey bourbon, limoncello and cinnamon schnapps.  It had sounded like a headache but tastes like apple pie, which has worked out for him since it’s his fourth.  On screen, Captain America points to the A on his helmet and hisses, "You think this stands for _France_?"

In between movies, they show the Cap reels.  Sam's having fun, mostly - one arm around James' waist, his eyes on the flickering black and white up front, a little drunk, body warm and satisfied the way you can only be when it’s snowing out and you’re right near a fire.  Up on screen the narrator says "Hailing from New York City, Bucky Barnes is Captain America's right hand man!" and they see ten clean holes appear in ten straw dummies.  Steve actually cheers.

"Your friend is too much," Tim tells Sam, at a volume where Steve can take him up on it if he wants.  He does, of course.

“What, it’s great,” Steve says, grinning sloppily.  He’s pretty drunk already, a casualty of being practically a foot shorter than the rest of them.  “This is some great cinema here.  It’s _American_ cinema.  An American _classic_.”

“A classic what, I’m too nice to say,” Tim says, with an arched eyebrow.

“Just imagine they’re all queer, that’s what I do,” Steve says, sucking down the last of his cocktail.  He’s been hitting the Plucky Youth, some sort of fizzy gin concoction.  His straw makes a little slurping fart when he hits the bottom of it.  

“That seems like a stretch,” Jim says, and sighs.  “I’m never gonna win this goddamn game.  All of my squares are about the goddamn musical.  Look at this shit.  Do you see this?  This is so unfair.”

"Hey, you don't know, maybe Captain America was queer," Steve says, smiling over the lip of his drink.  “Weirder things have happened.”

"Quit it," James grumbles, and sends an elbow into Steve's ribs.

"This again,” Tim says, and rolls his eyes.  He’s drinking beer, and pacing himself better than his husband and Steve.  “Quit trying to make it happen, honey.”

Steve, the asshole, looks over at Sam and winks.  Sam rolls his eyes too.  “You just like starting fights,” he tells Steve.

The server comes by with fresh bingo cards.  " _A Man Out of Time_ will start in ten minutes," she tells them.  "The cocktail prize for this round is the Red White  & Moscow Mule, okay?  We're doing Z to win -" and shows them, one finger drawing a Z shape on the little cards.   

Jim looks down at his new card, his face grim.  “This is _bullshit_ ,” he says quietly.

“I haven’t seen this movie for ages,” Sam says.  “This one’s where Cap lives through the war, right?”   

“Yeah,” Steve says, and then, in his best moviefone guy voice, “Where the real enemy is …. _America_.”

James tips his head over, rests it briefly on Sam’s shoulder.  He’s been a withdrawn all night; it’s the first time all year that the snow’s actually stuck and Sam keeps catching James rubbing at the join of his shoulder and the prosthesis, wincing.  “Y’okay?” Sam asks.  From the corner of his eye he can see James squeeze his eyes shut and then widen them as far as they can go, which is unnervingly large.  He hasn’t bothered to do much with his hair since he cut it all off; it’s shaggy and in his eyes most of the time, but this has the look of a dry eye moment.  Sure enough, James only shrugs, makes a little sigh in Sam’s ear, not feeling the need to talk or too stoned to figure it out.

About thirty minutes into _A Man Out of Time_ (Sam’s hit _American Panorama, Tech-Baffled Cap_ and _Red Menace_ on his bingo card), James eases himself upright, giving Sam’s arm a squeeze.  “Gonna go smoke,” he says, soft.  

“Okay,” Sam says, his attention up on the screen.  There's a rustle of sound - the slide of a boot across the desert floor.  Rogers is ready - his road weary face alert as his hand sneaks down to his belt, looking for a gun that isn't there -

Sam can remember being twelve or thirteen and finally allowed to watch this movie.  It had seemed unfair when he was a kid - he'd seen _The Shield_ when he was eight, and that'd been a straight shoot em up Rambo-style flick.  He'd done probably a hundred drawings of Captain America after seeing that one, or at least of his grandpa in red white and blue jammies, shooting Nazis from a wonky looking helicopter: _pow pow pow!_

But this - yeah, this movie had been different.  It had scared Sam the way the machine guns and flying body parts hadn’t.  The creeping inevitability of the government spooks sent to stop Rogers from denouncing the experiments he’d just found.  The look of poorly banked fear on Rogers’ face when he realized who exactly was hunting him.  The tired look in Rogers’ eyes when he raised his hands and said, “You got me, fellas.  You got me.”

And the torture scene - that had given him nightmares.

Right when he thinks that, he realizes that it’s been awhile since James went out to smoke. Shit, he thinks, and twists around in his seat, trying to see if James is anywhere in sight.  He is; he’s outside; leaning up against the big wide windows that line the front of the winery, where he’s out of sight of the screen but not their table.  He’s already looking at Sam when Sam spots him, all soft edges under the yellow glow of the streetlights.  

Sam tilts his head at James: _you okay?_  James eyebrows go up, and he rolls his eyes - smiling so Sam knows it’s at himself.  He raises one hand - cigarette between two fingers - and offers Sam a salute.  Sam returns it with a smile, the ache in his stomach turning sweet for a few moments.

On screen, Rogers sags bonelessly against the rough walls of his prison, and the camera lingers silently on his closed eyes, suffocatingly close.  There’s blood on his face, and a black eye is already forming.  His jaw works - suppressing any sound, any reaction to the torture he’d just been put through at the hands of people he’d thought were Americans.  The movie goes quiet.  Maybe he’s fallen asleep.  Maybe he’s unconscious.  

It's the crackle of fire that you hear first, then the voices of men, the drone of planes, of wheels churning up wet ground.  Far off, the echo of ack ack guns.  

The slap of a hand on his shoulder, startling him, and when Rogers opens his eyes it's to see the smiling face of a man with a mustache and a bowler hat. The noise of their campfire still paramount, even as Rogers accepts the grim looking field rations Dum Dum Dugan's holding out, settles in, listening to the men around him talk and laugh and sing.  The camera holds Roger's face, watches it flicker through emotion: sadness, joy, grief, all the yearning he'd just barely been holding back.  

"Redford won the Oscar that year," Steve says.  

Jim says, "Shhhh, this is my favorite part."

Jones and Morita are there, or at least there's a black guy standing away from the fire smoking a cigarette and an Asian guy washing up near their circle of tents, present if not speaking, which is probably the most Sam can expect.  The other Howling Commandos, or some suggestion of them, in the soldiers sharing the warmth of the fire.  And Bucky Barnes, barely a flicker of shadow on Rogers’ left, head tipped up towards the stars.

Rogers looks up too, and sees a field of stars, so much brighter and denser than he ever could have imagined, those far away days in Brooklyn.  The whole sky gone milky with starlight.  The camera looks up at those stars, even the snap and hiss of the fire fading away.

It cuts through Sam like a knife: only a few weeks in, out in the desert by themselves, waiting to join up with a convoy cutting towards them, Riley hiding the cherry glow of a cigarette under his hand as they sat under their own stars.  It had seemed like they were the only two people alive in all the world.

“Aw, Buck,” Rogers says, to the stars.  “You were the best soldier I ever knew.  The best friend I ever had.  You gave everything for this country and I’m, I’m so proud of you.”  

Rogers laughs, but the camera doesn’t show it, just holds steady on those far off lights.  “I’m almost glad you ain’t here,” he says.  “You wouldn’ta wanted to live to see a world like this.  Only damn thing good about it is the skirts are shorter, but even that, that -”

Sam looks down at his glass, rubs condensation off his fingertips.  Picks it up after a moment, tips the rest of his drink down his throat.  Quiet.  The sound of crickets, the wind blowing through the trees, oddly amplified, staticky from the print.  The bar is silent, illuminated here and there with cell phone screens, like fireflies.  

The camera cuts abruptly to Rogers’ face, bruised and bloody, back in his cell.  There’s the scrape of a key in the door.  They’ve come for him, and this time they mean to finish him off.  His chin’s still tipped up towards the sky, but when his eyes open they’re clear and hard.  Ready for action.

"Talk about _no homo_ ," Steve mutters, and Tim laughs outright.  

"I'm serious though," Steve says, indignant, and then says it again in a harsh whisper when a couple people glare at him.  "I'm serious!  This is a great fuckin movie, but they treat Bucky Barnes like he was - like he was Cap's _dog_ that got killed in the war.  He was more bummed out about that waitress blowing him off in the opening than he is about his best friend being dead."

"He's sad," Sam says, even though he feels stupid for saying it, for engaging Steve instead of tuning him out like Tim and Jim are doing.  He catches the server's eye, signals for another drink.  "You think because he's not weeping all over everyone, he's not sad?  He spends this whole damn movie so lonely he wants to kill himself."

“There’s not a single fucking dock in this movie,” Jim grumbles to himself, drumming his fingers on the table.

"He spends the movie killing Communists and infiltrating conspiracies," Steve says.  "I just wish there was one damn movie that let Cap grieve properly instead of the same old too manly to cry bullshit.  You ever read Jones' autobiography?"

"Of course," Sam says, but Steve talks over him, not waiting for an answer: "Cap was _wrecked_ after Bucky fell.  They would've rode that train right into a HYDRA stronghold if Jones hadn't taken over the mission.  But every single time they just have Cap just shrugging it off, no big deal - if Bucky's even _in_ the movie or book or whatever.  It's bullshit.  Everyone who knew them said that Bucky was the most important person in Rogers’ life.  Whether or not they were together, Cap would’ve - he would’ve been _destroyed_ if he’d had to live without Bucky.”

Sam laughs.  He can't help it.  "How would you know?"

Steve looks at him, genuinely surprised.  "You serious?" he says.  "You askin me that?"

"Yeah," Sam says.  He looks up at the screen, where Rogers is calmly and methodically digging through the bodies of the men who tortured him, looking for ammo or intel.  "You never been a soldier, you don't know what it feels like."

"I know what it feels like to lose my best friend," Steve says, heated.

"Come on, ladies, you're both pretty," Tim says, soothing, raising the hand not holding his beer.

"Don't be cute," Steve hisses at him.

Sam feels a touch on his shoulder.  He looks up to see James, left hand tucked up under his armpit, hair sticking damply to his forehead from the melting snow.  "Hey,” he says warily, looking down at all of them.  “What'd I miss."

"Steve over here forgetting he's not actually Captain America," Sam mutters.

"Sam over here being a _fucking dick_ ," Steve says, too loud, and when a few people try and shush him he shushes back.  Jim, bent over his bingo cards, finally looks up.

"Wow," James says, easing himself down on the bench between them.  "Come on, quiet down, you're gonna get us kicked out."

"I know," Steve says, venomous, leaning across James to try and get in Sam's face.  His face is flushed even on the dim light of the bar.  They're attracting more attention now, irritated faces turned pointedly away, their server hovering a little warily in the corner by the screen, watching and waiting to see if she needs to interfere.  "They told us Buck was dead and I thought my whole world was gonna end.  You never get over something like that, never.  You got no idea."

"Jesus, why're you talking about that stuff?" James asks, appalled.

"I got no idea?" Sam says, incredulous.  The grin feels mean on his face.  It feels good enough that he's not thinking too hard about what he's saying.  "You didn't have to watch him die in front of you, did you?  Knowing maybe if you were better, if you'd been faster, you might've saved him?"

"They don't let people like me serve,” Steve says, unsteadily.

"Yeah, that's right," Sam says.  "So why don't you stay in your lane.  That didn't happen to you," he says, pointing at the screen.  "Neither did this."

James looks down, to where Sam's pointing at his prosthetic arm, and stays looking, barely breathing.  "You got him back," Sam says to Steve, low.  "So hey, I guess I _don't_ know what that's like."

"Whoa, what the fuck," James says, and physically pushes them back, away from him.  "What the hell is wrong with you guys?  Don't talk to him like that."

It sounds impartial but he's looking at Sam when he says it, something pleading in his expression - _just drop it, okay?_  He doesn’t see the look Steve flashes at him, the gratitude in it.  Sam sees it, and shakes his head.  “Whatever,” he says.  “What the hell do I know anyway."

“Knock it off,” James says, warning.  Tim and Jim are looking between all of them, eyebrows high.  Tim meets Sam’s eyes but Jim cuts away, takes a sip of his drink.  Abruptly, it’s too much.  

James grabs his wrist, and says, “Where are you going?”

Sam looks down at him, realizes he’s stood up.  "I'm going home," Sam says.  “This is a stupid argument for a bunch of drunk people to have, and I’m done with it.”

James’ eyes dart to Steve, glaring up at Sam like _Sam’s_ the problem here, and Sam adds, feeling cruel, “You can stay if you want.”  

“No, I’ll,” another look at Steve, who shrugs one shoulder, minutely, “I’ll come with you.”

Outside it’s snowing in earnest, finally.  The cold is sharp, and he’s unprepared for it; hadn’t buttoned up his coat, hadn’t put on his scarf.  He feels, impossibly, more drunk outside than he did outside.  His fingers go numb enough that he drops a glove on the ground.  James picks it up, wordlessly hands it over.  

There’s a cab outside the bar.  James gets in first, tells the driver, “Crown Heights.”

“Prospect Heights,” Sam says, giving the cross streets to his apartment.  James lets out an angry sigh but doesn’t have anything else to say to that.

It’s a boro cab so there’s GPS, no need to direct the driver about how to get around Brooklyn, so for a long time there’s only the noise of the cab video, some lady sitting on a stoop with a bulldog, interviewing some celebrity Sam doesn’t know.  The air is thick inside the cab, the sound of the video almost as grating as the furious silence between them.

“You keep in touch with any of the guys from your unit?” James asks, abrupt.

Sam closes his eyes against the swirling white outside the cab, illuminated briefly in other people’s headlights.  “No,” he says.

“What about your wingman?”

He feels it like a kick to the chest; like getting shot with his gear on.  He sits up, looks hard at James.  “What’d you say?”

“Your wingman,” James says again.  "From EXO-7.  Look, I know you can’t break OPSEC, I’m not asking for a confirm or deny here, just, Stark had said - I ran an op with a team of Falcons once, I know you guys travel in pairs.  Where’s your wingman?  He still over there or something?”

Sam leans back against the door.  His heart’s hammering, hard enough that he thinks maybe James can hear it above the noise of the taxi video.  Like he can hear Sam’s thoughts, James reaches out and hits the mute button.  “We don’t talk,” Sam says, into the abrupt silence.

James makes a noise in his throat, disgusted sounding.  “If not him you oughta talk to someone,” he says, shaking his head, “cuz I don’t know what to fuckin do with you sometimes.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Sam asks.  “You mad because I didn’t want to listen to Steve’s pity party for the hundredth time?  It didn’t _happen to him_.”

“Why you gotta pick on Steve?” James asks.  From the rear view mirror Sam can see the cab driver, looking back at them.  The video switches back on, startling everyone, and James jabs a thumb at it angrily.  When nothing happens he yanks off a glove with his teeth, tries again.  

“You’ve _never_ had my back against him, not even once,” Sam says.  They’re stopped at a streetlight, people rushing past, heads down against the wind and the snow.  Jesus, he’s gonna have a heart attack.  His whole body’s hurting.  How much longer do they have to be in this cab?  God he shouldn't have had so much to drink.

“He’s my _best friend_ ,” James says.  “Look, I know he can be an ass sometimes but cut him some fuckin slack, okay?  He tries.”

“ _I_ try,” Sam growls, and then, out for blood, “Hey, be honest, did you ever _stop_ fucking Steve?  At any point we been together?"

James gapes at him.  Up front, the cab driver turns on his stereo.  “What the fuck,” James says slowly, each word carefully shaped.  “What the fuck, Sam.”

There’s a moment where Sam could back down.  Where he could say he’s sorry, that he’s just tired, that he’s just drunk, they can talk about it in the morning.  What he says instead is, “You heard me.”

James hisses, some kind of wordless, furious noise.  The worn leather seat squeaks under his broad shoulders.  The song on the radio's something Sam knows, something he heard a few times in the summer, through open windows on James' block.  "If you don't trust me," James bites out, "then don't fuckin date me."

Something in Sam recedes.  The pain in his stomach, the squeezing of his heart, like he’s stepping outside of himself.  His mind is blank.  He isn't looking at James but he can feel it when James realizes Sam's not gonna answer.

"Seriously?" James breathes, after a moment. "You got nothing to say to that?  You think I’m cheating on you and you got nothing to say?”

But he doesn’t.  He just feels cold.  “You’re a fuckin liar,” James says, hot.  He wipes at his face with one sleeve, his face red.  “You fuckin asshole.  The shit I put up with from you.  Well you listen to me, I don’t have to put up with shit like that from _liars_.”

“When have I ever lied to you,” Sam says, even as he thinks, distantly, always.

“ _Always_ ,” James says, like he can hear it.  “ _You_ be honest with _me_.  You lost someone over there.  That's why you’re acting like this, why you jumped all over Steve like that.  I got a right to know, don't I?  You lose someone?”  

“Maybe,” Sam says, sullen.  His heart’s picking back up again.  His face feels wooden.  They cross Myrtle Ave, make their way down through Bed Stuy.  They might as well be on the moon for all that Sam’s seeing of it.  “So what?  What am I supposed to do, sit in a room and cry about it for the rest of my life?”

James stares at him, hard.  “Why don’t you just say what you fuckin mean,” he says, low.

"What I mean," Sam says, tight and deliberate, both of them looking away now, "is that I _don't wanna talk about it._  I don't see the point in - what's the point, spending the rest of your life being sad about some fucked up shit that happened to you?  I'm a soldier, I signed up for it.  I knew what I was getting into."

"That's bullshit," James says, shaking his head.  "It doesn't work like that, you don't deal with your shit it's gonna eat you alive -"

"I am _dealing_ with it," Sam says.  "I'm moving on with my goddamn life.  You could learn something about that, your whole family is obsessed with tragedy, they still haven't gotten over shit that happened _seventy years ago_ -"

"Leave them out of it," James growls.  Underneath the radio and the hammer of Sam's heartbeat he can hear the whirring of James' prosthetic, shifting and settling.  "Leave them out of it, leave Steve out of it, this is you.  You're too scared to actually live out here, that's your fuckin damage, that's why you don't trust me."  

His voice cracks on the end of it.  He’s crying for real now, messy and flushed with it.  "It happened to me too, you son of a bitch," he says, wiping angrily at his nose.  "But you still don't I think I've got your back."

"No," Sam says, shaking his head, because that's not true, or at least not all the way true, but he doesn't know how to explain it in a way that'd make sense.  He scrubs both hands over his face, the thin wool scratching his skin, and then leaves them like that, blocking out all the light.  "It's not that."

"Then _what is it!_ " James shouts, and the cab driver says, "Hey," in warning.  

And Sam says, quiet, muffled behind his hands, "I'm not happy."

There's a moment of tense, considering silence.  He can feel the hard eyes of the cab driver, in the mirror.  James' eyes too, red and gleaming in the streetlights that flash by.  

"You mean with me," James says, flat and blank.  "Being with me."

It's not what he'd meant but in the moment it makes sense, a terrible, ringing sense.   _Yes_ , Sam thinks, _it would be so much easier to do this without you_.  

"James," Sam starts, and at the sound of his name James flinches and turns away.  

“Stop the cab,” James says, and then shouts, “ _Stop the cab!_ ”, thumping both fists on the partition.  The driver slams on the brakes, skidding a little on the wet pavement.  James is out the door before they’re even fully stopped, slamming it behind him so Sam’s gotta open his side, shout over the top of the cab, “James!  James!”

  
But James doesn’t turn around, and in a moment he’s gone, vanished into the swirling white.

  


	12. Chapter 12

 

The rest of the cab ride is a blur.

He's so fucking angry.  It swallows him whole.  Fuck James for running off, for not _listening_.  Fuck Steve too, which is probably what James is off to go do. They can't get within a mile of each other without slobbering all over each other.  Where the fuck is James gonna go in the middle of a snowstorm anyway?  Serves him right.  If Sam had wanted to tell anyone about Riley he would've.  But he didn't and that it's and it's all over and done with anyway, it _happened_.  

When Sam gets home he doesn't know what to do.

The apartment is cold and empty and dark, and Sam stumbles over both chairs trying to get to the radiator before he remembers to turn on the goddamn lights.  He's really, actually drunk; how many drinks did he have, anyway?  He lost count between the hours, can't remember much more than signaling for another and another, anything to stop having to pay attention to Steve and all his fucking whining about Captain America and Bucky Barnes.  The radiator clanks on with a horrific hiss of air, and for a moment Sam just stands there next to it, his hands tucked into his armpits - damp with snow, shivering and miserable.  

When he can unlock his arms he shuffles into the bedroom to turn on the radiator there, but stops dead in the doorway,  He sees: James' tee shirt strewn across the bed, a couple hair bands on the side table, a book he's halfway finished with.  The whole room _smells_ like him, like cigarettes and leather and weed and that stupid fucking frat boy body wash he likes so much.

Jesus Christ, James walked out on him.

Did they break up?  

Was that what happened?

Did Sam break up with him?

He reels in the doorway, one hand braced on the knob.  

But that was what he wanted.  

Oh god.

He digs his phone out of his pocket.  His fingers are numb.  His teeth are chattering.  He needs to turn on the radiator in his room, get the whole place warmed up, but he'd have to go _in there_ and he _can’t_ : the bed's still messed up from this morning, from the shivery sex they’d had buried under the covers.  Nothing on his phone: no texts, no alerts.  Just the time and a selfie of the two of them, tan and happy and smiling.

Fuck, that happened, they broke up.

He throws the phone.  It hits the bed and skids off, lands somewhere on the other side of the room with a clatter.  

It's early enough that the liquor store's still open, just barely.  It's the nice one up on Vanderbilt and for a second Sam misses the easy anonymity of the one near James', scratched bulletproof glass instead of rows upon rows of artisanal small batch bullshit.  He picks a whiskey at random, forks over $28 he doesn't have for the privilege of it, and retreats back to the apartment.  It's just warm enough inside that he can take his coat off, the white noise of his thoughts eaten up by the angry hiss of the radiator, clunking and thunking.  The whiskey's too good to waste on a drunk like this but he keeps drinking it anyway, staring fixed and aching at the empty table.  

_Did you ever **stop** fucking Steve, at any point we been together?_

_I don't have to put up with shit like that from **liars.**_

Sam scrubs both hands through his hair, peels his gloves off as an afterthought.  Kicks his shoes off.  Gets up and paces, the bottle still in hand.  Something in him is wound tight and ticking.  He's not thinking at all, except how bad he wants to scream, to smash everything, to burn the whole place down.  Thinking how much easier it would've been if it'd been him instead of Riley.  If it'd been something else that'd gotten him over there.  If something, anything had happened to take away this After, this _everyday_ , every day he'd spent since Riley died trying to get over it.  

_Stop the car! **Stop the car!**_

The apartment feels too large so he goes into the bathroom.  Feels better in there, safer, defensible.  Still wants to scream so he does, he screams, first into the arm of his sweater, then into both arms, hiding his face in the crook of his elbows when he wraps his hands over his head.  It's not enough, it's still too large and overwhelming, so he climbs into the bathtub and gets on his knees, screams again.  There's so much in him that it feels like it'll never empty out, he's filled up to the brim, and on the heels of another scream he chokes on the spit in his throat and starts coughing and crying.  Thrashing, his arms still wrapped over his head, the bottle between his knees, spitting and coughing and crying.  

And even that's not enough so he makes a fist and smashes it as hard as he can on the shower wall.  Does it again and again until there's bright blood smeared across the white subway tiles and sharp, brilliant pain shooting from his split knuckles to his jarred shoulder, and that's when he feels something in him give way like a landslide, and he lays down right there in the tub.  He curls up best he can, knees up on the side, hands over his face smearing blood and snot and tears together, and cries.

That's how Lou finds him, when she comes home hours later.

He'd left the door open, so she barges right in to use the bathroom.  When she sees him she screams long and loud, like something out of a horror movie.  He's lying half asleep in the corner of the tub, and when she screams he bolts upright, flailing for purchase against - against, Jesus, _fuck_ , she threw her purse at him!

"Lou, stop!" he bellows, and she screams again.  "It's me, _stop_!"

She collapses against the door, panting, and they stare breathlessly at each other: him halfway out of the tub, grabbing at the sides, which are slippery with blood; her with her fists up, covered in glittery face paint and ripped fishnets, her hair twisted and pinned up into a huge crested mohawk.

"Sam, what the fuck!" she screams, and he flinches, falls back into the corner.  "You scared the life out of me!  What the hell are you _doing_?"

Sam's breath hitches.  She looks at him, really looks at him, and her face changes.  "Oh my god," she says.  "What happened?  Is that _blood_?  Did someone hurt you?"

He wants to answer.  He wants to answer so bad but nothing comes out but another sob.  He feels sick.  His body is sloshing over with alcohol and emotion.  It feels like the world is ending.  It feels like everything is falling down.  

He brings his knees up, wraps his arms around them, tucks his face into the whole mess and cries.  

There’s a moment of hesitation, and then, distantly he hears the click of her shoes on the tub as she climbs right in and wraps her arms around him, leans her head against his.  She holds on while he shudders and tries to get himself together and can't.

It feels so - it feels so stupid.  He feels ridiculous.  He's so _stupid_.  God he can't believe he was so stupid.

He clutches at her, one hand around her knees - his right hand hovering awkwardly in the air behind her back, curled halfway into a fist.  There’s a lot of blood.  He’s getting snot in her hair.  She’s going to kill him when she realizes it.  

“Shhhhh,” she whispers, and strokes a hand over his back, rocks him until slowly, slowly it tapers off and he can breathe again, his whole body hitching with little sobs.  

“Hang on,” she says, and kneels up just far enough to snag the edge of the toilet paper and wiggle the roll off its holder.  He looks at it - looks at his left hand and then the right, swollen and bloody - the impossibility of it staggering.  She tears off a few sheets, dabs gently at his face for him until it’s too much and he has to do it himself.  When he blows his nose there’s blood there too; he’d cried hard enough to give himself a nosebleed.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, his head rolling loose on his neck.  It’s so hard to stay upright.  He’s so tired.  His head is killing him.  He drank too much.  He hurts so bad.

“You pooped on me once when you were a baby,” Lou says, balling up the used tissue and tossing it into the toilet.  “Nothing could be worse than that.”  It startles him enough that he laughs a little, trailing off into a hiccoughing little sob.  

“Hang on,” she says.  “I’m gonna get you some water, then we’re gonna fix up your hand.  Where’s your kit, do you keep it in here?”

“Under my bed,” he slurs, and she nods.

“You should throw up while I’m getting it,” she tells him.  “You’ll feel a lot better.”

The bathroom feels impossibly empty when she leaves.  He looks at the open door; he looks at the toilet.  Thinks about pushing up onto his hands and knees, getting one leg over the bathtub wall and then the other.  Does it, after a moment - the effort Herculean.  Why the fuck did he drink so much?  Anger washes through him, and disgust; how pathetic he is, crawling around, covered in snot and tears, can’t even stand up.  Get up, soldier!  Get up!

As soon as he smells the stale cleaner smell of the toilet, everything in his stomach comes up.  Lou returns when he’s halfway through it, rubs a hand over his back and through his hair, soothing.  She hands him some more toilet paper to wipe his mouth, and he drops it in with the mess and flushes it all away.  Sits back against the wall as she grabs the Febreze.  Feels little droplets of it land on his face like rain.

“Sam,” Lou says, startling him.  He opens his eyes.  Suddenly she’s in focus and sitting right in front of him.  “Sam, wake up.  You gotta drink this.”

Instead of water, it’s a - he laughs, it’s a juice pack, a Caprisun.  “We had these in the desert,” he tells her, and she shrugs.  

“You bought them,” she says.  He doesn’t remember that, but maybe, it sounds about right, they’d braved the Costco down in Red Hook a few months ago, went right when it opened to try and avoid the crowds, ended up getting caught anyway in a wave of Hasidic families jamming the place full with two carts apiece, and James cursing some guy out in Yiddish when -

It overwhelms him again: _James_.  He has to close his eyes, breathe deep past the choking knot in his throat.  God he doesn’t want to cry anymore.  He takes the juice from Lou with his eyes still closed, gets himself twice in the cheek with the straw before it gets into his mouth.  The taste of it is just like he remembers, washing away the dust.

Vaguely he knows Lou’s moving around in the small space.  The tap’s running.  She’s taken off her heels, which are sitting right next to him.  His right hand is in his lap, shifting from dim ache to shrieking pain.  He does feel better, or at least: he feels nothing.  He feels like an empty, useless space.  But less drunk, at least.  

He opens his eyes when she settles back down in front of him.  She’s changed out of her skirt and into a pair of soft sleep pants, but she’s still got a glittery top on, and all her makeup, and that mohawk.  “Why do you look like a road warrior?” Sam asks, very softly.  His throat is raw and it hurts to talk.  “Wait, what are you doing?  You’re gonna get blood on you.”

"Shut the fuck up and walk me through this," she says.

She follows his instructions closely, careful not to scratch him with her long fingernails.  She’d gotten a bowl from the kitchen and filled it halfway with warm water, which turns red as she cleans the blood off his hand and face.  She hisses when she pours hydrogen peroxide over his split knuckles, even though the pain barely registers over the throb of the rest of his mess, her thumb rubbing over his wrist like she could take even that away if she could.  They watch it bubble, then subside.

"Is it broken?" she asks.  He lifts his hand up out of hers, moves his fingers cautiously.  She’s done a good job with the bandages - they look neat and clean.  He still might need stitches at some point but it’s more than he can deal with at the moment.

"Don't think so," he says, "but better safe than sorry.  Here, hand me my kit."

She scoffs and hands him another juice instead, which he drinks as she splints his hand.  Cotton balls go between each finger, and the hand itself is braced with the splint from his kit.  They have to make it up a little to fix his fingers - padding each with gauze and then binding them together with elastic bandages.

“Doing okay?” she asks, at one point, and he is.  He’s breathing slow and deep.  It’s a weird feeling, just sitting back and letting himself be moved around, sucking down his juice.  It’s meditative, almost.  There’s blood on her pants and her shirt, and blood all over him, and he knows she sees the blood still all over her bathtub, but when she's done she just settles back down on her butt and sighs, deeply.

"There," she says, and gives him a final, gentle pat to the back of his hand.  "Was it so hard to let someone take care of you for a change?"

Sam looks down at his hand, turns it over, stares at the tidy wrappings covering him almost fingertip to elbow, padded on his knuckles with bandages, lumpy above and below where the splints are.  It hurts, a low aching throb in time with his heartbeat, but it’s not too bad.  It’s not too bad.

"Thanks," he says softly.  He reaches out with his left hand, and she folds it between both of his, gripping tight.  

"You gonna tell me what happened?" she asks.  The funny thing is, she says it like she doesn't think he will.  

He looks at their hands joined together for a long moment.  God, he doesn't want to.  Saying it will make it true, but that's not even -

He thinks the words: _James and I broke up.  James left me.  I think he was cheating on me.  I got into a fight with Steve.  I got into a lot of fights with James._  

And then he thinks, _I haven't slept for two days.  I've been drinking too much.  I have nightmares every night.  I feel like the cops follow me around.  I think they're out to get me.  Sometimes I'm so angry I can't think straight and I don't know why.  Sometimes I'm so scared I can't even move and I don't know why that happens either.  Most days I wish I was dead.  Sometimes I have dreams about how I'd do it._

Abruptly, his heart is pounding again.  It’s hard to breathe.  He licks his lips, and looks up.  Looks down again, squeezes her hand, and says, very quietly, forcing it out:

“I’m not okay.”

Shame floods him, hot and thick.  Everything blurs, abruptly: his eyes are full of tears.  But he says it again anyway.  "I'm not okay, Lou."

He looks up and she meets his gaze, her eyes searching his.  "I know," she says, soft and ashamed.  There are tears in her eyes but if he doesn't get the rest out it's gonna kill him, one way or another.  So he says the rest of it, the words falling out of his mouth one after another, Riley and Grandpa and all of the things he saw over there, that are still with him when he closes his eyes and sometimes even when they're open.  

"I just, I just wanted to come home," he tells her, "I wanted to be myself again, I wanted to be okay.  I wanted to be okay for you and for Mom and Dad.  I didn't - I didn't wanna be one of those guys who couldn't come back."

He's crying again, but it doesn't really matter so much this time around, and she's crying too.  Her makeup's running a little and he reaches out, clumsily wipes blue eyeliner off her cheeks with his uninjured hand.

She reaches out too, brushes his tears away and leaves one hand cradling his head, her thumb stroking his cheek.  "What do you need?" she asks, choked.  "Sam, it's gonna be okay.  What do you need?"

He lets her draw him in close, rest his head in the crook of her shoulder.  She smells like cigarettes and spilled beer and it's kind of funny, both of them drunk and clinging to each other in the bathroom in the middle of the night.  

"Help," he sighs, muffled in her shirt.  "I need help."

-  


Tim and Jim come over around four, bearing hangover helpers and weed.  Sam had slept on the couch last night and he’s still there, wrapped up in blankets while the radiators cluck and grumble to each other from either end of the apartment.  The first thing he says to them is “Sorry,” and tries to get out of the nest of blankets Lou had built around him, but they just drag the kitchen chairs over towards the couch, circling the wagons.

“Get the fuck out of here with that,” Tim says, his focus mostly on tearing up the little nug in his hand, sprinkling it into the grinder.  

"Nah, nah," Sam says vaguely, and manages to sit up, if not unwrap.

"Relax, Sam.  You look terrible," Jim says, with a grimace.

"Yeah," Sam sighs, too defeated to think of anything cute to say.  He feels terrible.  The last time he'd been this hungover was after extended training day, and even then the aches and agonies had been more about all the fucking swimming and hauling that fucking log around than the bottle he and Riley had emptied after it'd all been over.

He'd barely managed to keep water down until almost noon, and even now he feels like he's been poisoned.  He'd checked his hand over as soon as he could manage to sit upright without wanting to vomit.  Nothing's broken, but every movement is another layer of excruciating pain on top of everything else.  

Jim hands Sam an orange Gatorade and Lou a coconut water, cracks open a beer for himself and his husband.  Sam takes little sips of his drink, watches them trade off grinder for papers for loose tobacco for beer without looking at each other, just little brushes of their hands.

They already know the damage; Tim had texted around eleven, to see if Sam wanted to get brunch in the Village.  Sam had managed to stop them from bringing brunch to him, but not tea and sympathy afterwards.  

"I'm just so surprised," Jim says, accepting the spliff when Lou passes it to him.  He lips it gently, blows out a thin stream of smoke.  "It's been, what, almost a year?  And you two were still all over each other like you just met."

"Nine months," Sam says, into the blankets.  "Almost ten."  

"Sickening," Jim says, and hands Sam the spliff. They'd given him greens, but it's the second and third hit that finally start to unclog him.  He takes a fourth, feeling greedy about it, and Tim starts rolling another without asking.  He feels his brain unhook a little, separate from the weight of his body and the hangover and the crushing sadness he feels.

"I'm sorry, guys," he says, after he hands off the spliff to Lou.  He struggles upright again - he'd slumped over without really noticing it - and rubs his uninjured hand over his eyes, already dry.  "I'll be okay tomorrow, I don't know why this is fucking me up so bad."

"First breakup," Tim says, and Jim nods.  

"I've broken up with people before," Sam says, tired.  The second joint comes around to him, and he starts to think vaguely about eating something, or sleeping, or crawling into a hole and never ever coming out.  He's never been so exhausted in his life, or at least that's how it feels at the moment.  It's funny, the way the body forgets pain.  He laughs, thinking that; hiding the laughter in the crook of his elbow like a cough.  

"Never broke up with a man before," Tim clarifies.  

"Is it that different?" Lou says.  She's got the other end of the couch, her feet tucked under Sam's blankets, their toes brushing.  Without her makeup, in one of Sam's old Air Force shirts, she looks like she did in high school.

"Maybe not the third or fourth time," Tim says, shrugging.  "But the first one, that'll fuck you up."

"Maybe," Sam sighs.  "Maybe James was -"

He can't finish the sentence.  He's so sad.  It feels so banal to think of it that way but it's true.  His whole body is aching to crawl into James' bed, to put his arms around James and drift off to sleep.  God he'd give anything not to feel all of this anymore.  Or even to go back to how it was last night.  Being angry had been better than this, this - suffocation.

On the coffee table, his phone rings.  They all look at it, at Steve’s name on the screen.  “Hell no,” Tim says, instantly.  Sam giggles, feeling a little hysterical, and turns his face into the pillow.  It rings six times and then stops.

A moment later, his text alert chimes, three times in a row.  "Yeah, okay," he says to Lou, when she makes a move towards it.  "Password's my birthday."

"You got a novel here," she says, and then, " 'Sam, Bucky never cheated on you with me or anyone else.  I don't know what the hell happened between you guys but you don't really think that, do you?  I don't care about monogamy but Bucky does and I would never do that to anyone he's with'. "

"Bull _shit_ ," Jim says, venomously - and the confirmation of it, that other people could see it too, hurts so bad he curls up around it like someone’s hitting him for real.  For a second all Sam can think of is sex: warm, slick skin, the exact shape of James' cock in his hand, the weight of him on Sam's thighs as he rides Sam - the span of James' hand across Steve's back, the way his eyes had slid closed when he went down on Steve, the way they'd looked at each other when Steve had ridden him -

" 'He missed work today and he won't get out of bed.  He hasn't had an episode like this for a year'," Lou continues, " 'You're a real fucking asshole, Sam Wilson.  You don't even know half the shit he goes through with' - I think he means PTSD and depression but his spelling's kinda fucked - 'because he was too afraid you'd dump him if you knew about it.  Guess he was right!'  There's five exclamation points in that.  'He's worth ten of you and -', yeah, this other shit's not worth reading, I'm deleting it."

She fiddles with the phone.  Sam watches her blearily, wondering if she's gonna text something back, but she really does just delete whatever Steve sent.  The phone buzzes in her hands, and she deletes whatever that is too.  

"This is exactly why I don't fuck with white people," she says, glaring down at the screen.  "You ever hear a white guy admit something was his fault?"

"He's right though," Sam says, squeezing the words through his throat, because that part hurts too, _he was too afraid you were gonna dump him_ , and it's easier to think about than thinking of Steve, there with James now, comforting him.  "It's my fault.  It was me."

"Sam, no," Lou objects, but he can't take it, he can't stand to hear anything nice when it's not _true_.

"I didn't tell James anything that was going on with me," Sam says.  "I guess that made two of us but I wasn't scared he was gonna break up with me, I -"

He gropes for the words.   "I just didn't wanna deal with it," he says.  "I thought I could handle it on my own.  I didn't want him to know.  I don't like you guys knowing either."

He feels bad saying that last part, everyone gathered around him to make him feel better, but he feels like a bug under a microscope: too exposed for it to be only comforting.  

"How's that been working out for you," Tim says, dry as a bone.

He looks at his hand, balanced awkwardly on the arm of the couch to keep from jarring it, and tries to flex his fingers a little.  Even the slight movement stings painfully, and then of course the whole thing wakes up and starts throbbing.  "Been great," Sam says, and rubs his eyes with his other hand.  "Hey, roll another."

"Happy to," Tim says.  "Baby, hand me - "

"Yeah," Jim says.  Sam takes a deep breath, lets it out slow.  He's good and stoned now, melting a little into the couch.   He curls back up in his blanket nest.  Fuck it.  It's just for today.   He'll be better tomorrow, and what's he got to prove to anyone anyway?  

He doesn't want to talk about this shit anymore.  Last night, yeah, maybe he'd said what he said but the more hours pass between now and - god, screaming and crying in the bathroom like an asshole, scaring Lou like that - the more embarrassed he's feeling about the whole thing.  He wishes they would just let him go to sleep.  He settles in a bit, closes his eyes, hoping Tim will take the hint.

"I'm gonna email you some links," Tim says.  "There's a therapy network in the city, specializes in LGBT counseling.  A lot of 'em do sliding scale based on income."

"Yeah, maybe," Sam sighs.  He can feel the look on Tim’s face even with his eyes closed.  God, he’s thirsty.  His mouth feels like he stuffed it full of cotton.  "Tim, I'm broke as hell.  I gotta see what I can get through the VA.  I don't even know what my options are or if they'll even have something for me."

"What part of sliding scale payment are you not hearing?" Tim asks.  

"I'll pay for it," Lou says.  "Whatever it ends up being, I got you."

Sam opens his eyes, stares at the reddish edges of the bandages, inches from his face.  "I can't ask you to do that," he says.

"Yeah and who asked," Lou says.  She's wiping at her eyes, and it's enough that Sam sits up, alarmed - wincing when he ends up jarring his hand.  

"Lou," he says. "Lou, come on, stop that.  Why you crying?”  

She shakes her head, pushes her hair back from her face with both hands.  “I see you over there, making excuses,” she says.  “This is just how mom said it was, when you were first back.  You ain’t gonna do shit and the next time, next time - god only knows what’s gonna happen next time, you don’t care of yourself.”

"No, look, I just - I don't wanna go to gay therapy, okay?” Sam says.  “They're not gonna know what to do with me.  Sex isn’t my problem, I don’t have issues with that shit.”

“So whoever down at the VA is gonna be able to tell you how to get right with your family?" Tim asks.  "They're gonna be able to guide you through the next relationship you have, help you actually learn how to trust someone you wanna fall in love with?  They gonna know what it feels like to tell your Air Force buddies you got a boyfriend?"

Sam smiles.  It feels brittle on his face.  "Some gay therapist gonna get it if I tell em I wish I was back there getting shot at?  If I say that was the last time my life made sense?"

Lou makes a noise, sharp and hurt.  Sam looks down, looks away, something burning in his chest.  It’s not always what he thinks but right now it feels like he’ll choke on it, trying to swallow it down.

"Go to both," Tim says.  Sam grins just thinking about it.  

"Yeah," he says.  "Take it out on two people 'stead of just one.  I'm alright."

“You’re not,” Lou says.  “That’s what you said to me last night.  You’re not alright.  And you’re never gonna be unless you do something about it.”

“This an intervention?” Sam asks, tight.  He pushes the blankets off his lap and stands, but there’s nowhere to go - the apartment’s too small, too hot, and being upright feels fucking awful, He staggers, dizzy, and for one sickening moment thinks he’s going to start crying again.

Instead his throat seals up, and he sits down heavily, trying to breathe.  Feels like there’s a chunk of glass down his throat.  His heart is pounding.  “Sorry,” he says, when he can.  “Sorry, I’m -”

He tips his head back, takes little sips of air.  “I know you guys are trying to help,” he says.  “But I - I can’t.  This is, it’s too much.  I need some time to think about all this without y’all jumping down my throat.”

There’s a stretch of contemplative silence, where no one quite looks at each other, and then Tim says, gentle, “Sam, you gotta help yourself.  Kill whatever's in your head that says you don't deserve it."

Sam laughs.  He doesn't mean to, it just slips out.  "Sorry," he says, "just, I - yeah, it's not funny."

"What's not funny," Lou asks, aggressive.  

“Nothing,” Sam says, sagging back into the couch.  “Nothing, Lou.”

She stares at him, her fists clenched in the blanket, and then throws it aside abruptly.  “I can’t with you,” she says, and gets up and goes into the kitchen rather than wait for Sam’s response.  He watches the slope of her shoulders, the stiff line of her neck as she stands braced at the sink, her hands gripping the edge of the counter.

Tim says, casually, “I tried to kill myself twice when I was a kid.”

At the look on Sam’s face, he shrugs.  "Sure.  I grew up in Lefferts Garden.  My family's from Trinidad, we went to church every day.  How you think they feel about some skinny, faggy kid who reads all them comic books and talks white?"

Jim leans into his husband, subtle support; without looking over Tim takes his hand, laces their fingers together.  “I been on medication for years.  Mostly for anxiety,” Tim says, and nods his chin at Jim, who smiles.  “He’s been in therapy off and on since -”

“Since I was thirteen,” JIm says.  

“No shame in it,” Tim says.  “The only shame’s in believing help is for other people.”

Sam exhales.  Tim meets his eyes evenly, lets the moment stretch.  Eventually Sam gets a hand under himself, braces against the couch to stand.  He's wobbly on his feet, but it's only a few short steps into the kitchen.  Lou lets him turn her around, put his arms around her, and they hold each other without speaking for a long time.

"Don't," she whispers harshly, into his chest.  "Don't make me go to my brother's funeral, Sam.  Don't do that to me."

He tightens his grip on her, and feels her do the same.  "Okay," he says.  

 

-  


He says, later, after they've smoked the rest of Tim's weed and listened to music and started looking up some of the therapists from Tim's site: "Fuck, I gotta call James, I gotta make it right.  I gotta get him back."

As soon as he's said it, it's like he's been stung - if he can tell Lou and Tim and Jim then maybe he could tell James too, make him understand why Sam had covered it all up - and besides he's _hungry_ for James, greedy to talk to him and to touch him.  The urgency of it runs all the way through him, the first real thing he's felt all morning through the hangover and the crushing weight of his depression.  

"Hold up, brother," Tim says, when Sam struggles upright and reaches towards his phone.  "Maybe you should get yourself right first."

And he can't hardly argue with that, though he tries - he could be honest this time, he could be better - but even as he's protesting he feels an echo of what he'd thought in that cab: _this would be so much easier without you_.  

He calls later anyway, unable to help himself.  He sneaks into his room when everyone else goes outside for a cigarette, and puts his back against the door before he dials.  His heart's pounding; he doesn't even know what he wants to say except _I'm sorry, I'm sorry I did this to us_.

He calls three times, but it doesn't even go to voicemail.

 

-

 

The next day the hangover is gone but the sadness is still there, like once he'd opened the gates he couldn't get them closed anymore.  But still there, too, is Lou - who emails him a list of six therapists and calls him on her lunch break to see if he's okay.  Tim calls later on too, and chivvies Sam out of the house long enough to get dinner at the ramen shop on Vanderbilt.  They don't talk much, and it doesn't make him _not_ sad, but after Tim grabs the train back to his own neighborhood Sam walks around on his own for a while, crunching new snow underfoot and feeling quiet.

The day after that Sam calls three of the therapists, the ones who accept sliding scale payments, and makes an appointment with two of them for later in the week.  It's surreal, contemplating being on the other side of things; he'd done Counseling Skills & Interviewing Techniques last semester and the thought of having it all turned back on him makes him feel kind of sick.  He tries not to worry about it too much, tries to think about Getting Better.

Afterwards he falls asleep on the couch and doesn't wake up until Lou gets home from work.  He hadn’t meant to; he’d wanted to go running, he itches for it all over.  But his body feels heavy and his heart even heavier, so instead they eat dinner together, and watch reality TV on her laptop, and she wakes him up again when it's time to go to bed.  

The day after that Sam calls the coordinator from his internship and starts the grinding process of getting admitted to one of the VA groups.  There's a group that meets Thursdays in the city and one that meets Sundays in Queens and he has to speak to four people before he's told even that much.  The fourth tells him he needs to come in for an assessment to find out whether he’s eligible and no one knows how he might be able to go about getting a prescription or a regular doctor he might not have to pay out of pocket for, so after he hangs up with that one he sits unmoving on the couch for a long time, too far gone to even cry.  

He thinks, very clearly, about a mountain so big that you can’t see the top.  He’d seen some like that, in Afghanistan - shrouded in mist in the early dawn or in the shimmering heat of midday.  It’s paralyzing, to think of taking another step when even the first one had crumbled so easily under his feet.  He picks up his phone, but instead of calling the next VA Vogon on the list he thumbs open his messages and texts Tim instead: _fuck all this shit_.

He gets a message back a few minutes later.   _Yeah but you got this,_ Tim says.   _Come chill @ my shop if you get bored staring at your walls._

He doesn't, but the thought of it helps him pick the phone back up and keep calling.

The day after that, he texts Steve.

 _You gotta stop_ , he says.  

He gets a text back a short while later, a variation on the theme Steve's been sending Sam every few hours for the last four days.   _You gotta know he dint do ne thing.  It's not like that btwn him & me._

Sam’s in his room, sprawled out on his bed trawling through the course catalog for his spring semester.  Class deadlines are this week and he’s been putting it off, feeling the guillotine weight of that February court date.  What the fuck was the point of paying for all this, of going through the motions like he's gonna have a life in two and a half months.  He hasn't even heard from Foggy for a few weeks; maybe the guy had realized Sam's case was hopeless, and had cut and run.  There's been a part of Sam that's almost been relieved to be able to focus on the concrete immediacy of missing James and taking that second step up the mountain, instead of worrying about whether any of it would matter come February 28th.  

In that sense, anger is a relief too, and he puts his laptop to the side to answer Steve's text.

_You're full of shit you know it's exactly like that._

Steve's answer is immediate, and before he looks at the text Sam wonders where Steve is.  It's the middle of the day, shouldn't he be working?  (Where is James?  Has he gone back to work?  Is he okay?)

_Maybe wen we were kids but not ne more  He loves YOU._

Sam drops his head back onto his pillow, his phone onto his chest.  It's cold in his room, some in between temperature outside that's just high enough that the heating in the building hasn't kicked on.  Without the clunking hiss of the radiators the apartment feels silent and empty, not even the susurrus of road noise to drown out sudden pounding of his heart.  They'd never said that word, not to each other.

His phone buzzes twice more.  He doesn't look until he can breathe again.  He wanted to be mad but Steve's knocked him out with the first punch.  The messages are hard to parse for a second, Steve typing so furiously that even autocorrect can't herd him into legibility.

_Ur braking his heart here &worse than. I ever did.  He loves u so mich.  He doesn't even care u think he cheatebd he thinks he wsnt good enough 4 u_

_He thnsk he's too fcked up 4 u_

Sam clicks the button on his phone twice, switches from text to calls.  His thumb hovers over James’ name for an endless, fearful moment.  Clicks back to Steve, types out the truth: _I’m too fucked up for him._

There’s a pause, as clear as if Steve was in the room with him, his bangs falling into his face as he cocks his head to the side.

_Wht?  y r u fuckedu p?_

_I got a lot of baggage_ , Sam says.   _I know this is gonna sound like a line but it wasn't him, it was me.  I fucked up.  I gotta get right with myself.  You gotta stop texting me.  It's not your business anymore & it never was._

There's a longer pause, long enough that Sam starts thinking Steve'll take him at his word and drop it.  But it's Steve, so he's not too surprised when his phone buzzes again.   _Wait but whats wrong w u?  What happened?_

Sam stares up at the ceiling.  God, he's gonna have to do this forever.  Every person he ever wants to be close to, he'll have to say the words.  Explain how fucked up he is: What Happened.  The thought of it weighs a thousand pounds, pressing right down on his chest.  

But he doesn't owe Steve anything.  Steve isn't his _friend_.  All Steve cares about is some - some point of honor bullshit, making sure Sam knows he's _better_ than that, to prey on someone else's boyfriend.  

His fingers twitch where they're wrapped around his phone.  The neediness he feels scares him.  He should call James, explain everything.  That wouldn't mean they'd get back together.  Although what would be wrong with that?  They worked together, they'd been so good together, at least for a while.  But that, that was -

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them, stares up through the windows at the weak light filtering in from outside.  His heart thuds dully in his chest.  He feels hot all over.  He feels close to tears.  He draws a long, ragged breath and then another.  Next to him, his computer makes a soft click as it turns itself off, goes to sleep.

 _He’s not returning my phone calls anyway so it doesn’t matter,_ Sam answers.   _Bye Steve._

-

He gets a therapist.  He gets into a group at the VA, starts going once a week, then twice a week.  He doesn’t talk much at first, just sits and listens and feels bad sometimes, about people who’ve had it worse than him, or scornful towards the people who didn’t.  There’s one or two guys that flit in and out who had gone over but never saw any action, never did anything more dangerous than sit at a desk and push papers, but still can’t sleep at night.  There’s a woman who lost both her legs to an IED.  There are two women who were raped and quietly shuffled home.

He quits the first therapist, who stared quietly at him and waited for him to open up, and starts going to a different one, who makes it a conversation that he doesn’t too much mind having.  He takes her diagnoses to a doctor and gets a bunch of pills, which he takes in the morning looking anywhere but into the mirror.  

Steve texts, sometimes - at first about what Sam's damage might be, but eventually just a photo or something once a week or so, like he just wants Sam to know he's still around.  Sam never replies, so eventually that stops too.

He puts on a little weight, just enough to make him fret about the definition of his stomach.  Some of it's probably from the pills but most of it's because he stays in more often than he does anything else.  He sleeps in a lot.  He goes to therapy and then comes home.  He tells himself that it's too cold for running and that he deserves a break but each day he wakes up and had stayed indoors the morning before, the harder it gets to think about putting his sneakers and a sweatshirt on and heading out into the chill, predawn streets.

For Christmas he and Lou take the train back home, which isn't too bad.  He's got homework already from his classes, still a few weeks off from starting.  He and Lou share a pair of earbuds and some Michael Jackson, and Sam watches the countryside roll by past their window, crisp and clear and bright.  He'd forgotten a little, what it was like to see trees and rivers and houses that didn't butt up against each other.

That night, while they decorate the tree, Sam tells their parents about what’s going on with him.  And it isn't easier, exactly, but he'd practiced what he was gonna say in group, and he'd talked it over with Lou, and he'd written it out like his therapist had told him on the train ride down.  It isn't even all that dramatic; Mom cries a bit and Dad looks solemn and in the end Sam even believes himself that he's _on a path_ , that he's taking care of himself.  They go back to decorating the tree afterwards.

On New Year's Eve, he doesn’t kiss anyone.

The second week of January, he and Lou are snowed in by a historic storm and get into a screaming fight on the first day.  They spend the second day locked into their own rooms, and the third doing yoga tutorials on YouTube.  It helps - it puts him back in his body the way he hasn't felt since he stopped running, and on the morning of the fourth day he gets up early and follows along with the video he'd liked best before he puts on his snow boots and goes to meet Tim for lunch around the corner of the comic shop.  

It's warm out, for a certain value of warm.  The sunlight glinting off the fresh snow is blinding, and the streets are full of blank white shapes instead of cars, trees, or piles of garbage.  Brooklyn is hushed by the snow, full of muted sounds: the scrape of a brush over someone's buried car, the scrunch of boots on the snow.  He breathes out big plumes of steam as he waits for the bus.  He starts school in a week, and if everything works out okay he'll be walking in a cap and gown at the end of the year.  

It’s an _if_ so big it makes Sam sick to think about it.  He’s been taking it day by day the way his therapist tells him, and the group tells him, but he’s not sure if he really is getting better.  He wishes he could ask James, who would know - who it happened to - and even the wishing makes Sam ache all over.  Missing James, at least, hasn’t gotten any easier; he’s starting to wonder if maybe it won’t.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

The morning of his court date is unbearably, hilariously shitty.  The third snowstorm in as many weeks blows in late the night before, and flakes are whipping through the air when they slip out of the apartment and into the cab they weren't really sure was gonna come.  Lou manages to fall on the ice coming down the steps from their building, and she bends over the torn knee of her pants as Sam directs the driver towards downtown Brooklyn.  

"You okay?" Sam asks, and she blows out an irritated breath, visible even in the hot cab.

"Are _you_?" she counters, and because he's really trying these days he shakes his head and says, "No."

She takes his hand, grips it tight.  Her fingers feel small and chilly against his.  "Foggy thinks -"

"Yeah," Sam says, thickly.  "I can't think about what Foggy thinks."

It feels like it takes hours to get downtown.  The roads are slushy and gray, and the cab slips from side to side on the ice.  This early hardly anyone's out, just a few stray commuters bent against the miserable wind, dragging their feet towards the train.  Sam's sweating under his big coat and suit.  Foggy had wanted him to wear his blues, but Sam had put his foot down hard on that one.  He regrets it a little, now - it would be completely inappropriate, and the thought of bringing the uniform and all that it represents into a criminal court is repulsive - but civilian wear pulls in all the wrong places and he'd take any bit of comfort he can get, right now.  

There's a bottle of pills in his coat pocket that he fights an internal battle over the whole ride.  For panic attacks, the doctor had said, which was the first time anyone had ever named that heart attack feeling that happens to him.  The pills make him sleepy and that's the last thing he wants to be when his freedom's at stake, but his whole brain is buzzing with all those _ifs_ , so fast that it's all dissolved into static.  He tips his head back against the seat rest, tries to ignore the acrid smell of the cab and the faint wisp of cold air curling in from his cracked window.  

It's too much to tell himself that it'll be okay (what if it _won't_?) so he doesn't tell himself anything.  

The courthouse is a squat, ugly building, crouched over a wide plaza more concrete than anything else, unmistakably menacing.  It's a courthouse; it could be nothing else, even if it's missing the columns and the marble stairs of the ones in Manhattan, the grand building Sam had vaguely expected from too many years of cop dramas.  In the empty space, this close to the water, the wind is brutal.  Lou settles up with the driver (Sam's ego gives him a little twinge) and together they run across the plaza towards shelter.  Under the eaves of the entrance, they take a second to shake the snow out of their hair, catch their breath.

He'd noticed the little figure already huddled near the front doors when they'd pulled up - if Afghanistan hadn't made him hyper vigilant, New York City certainly had - but had filed it away as _not a threat_ until it pushes back the thick hood with the back of one gloved hand, and it's Steve.

It hits Sam like a fist, and for a moment they just stand there and look at each other.  Then Sam whips around: his eyes dart from Lou to the empty courtyard to the cab pulling away from the curb to the people just inside the glass doors, waiting on the security line.

“Just me,” Steve says, when Sam looks back at him.  He’s got both hands wrapped around an enormous travel mug, braced against his chest like he could throw it if Sam made any sudden moves.  

Lou loops an arm through Sam’s.  He can feel her shivering.  His toes are turning numb inside his dress shoes.  His face feels numb too, and when he says, “What are you doing here, Steve?”, the words sound thick and clumsy in his mouth.  It’s all he can think of to ask.   

“I still had the date saved in -” Steve says, haltingly, and then his jaw firms up.  “You can tell me to leave if you want,” he says.  “Just thought maybe you’d want another warm body on your side."

Sam takes a breath, squeezes it out in a thin stream of fog.  “You don’t gotta do that,” he says.

“We’re friends,” Steve says, his voice steady and his eyes on Sam: letting it be a full sentence instead of a question.

Sam looks at Lou.  She’s looking at Steve, chin jutted out, and when her eyes flick up towards Sam all he reads in them is suspicion.  She shrugs, minutely: _your call._  

“Yeah, all right,” Sam says.  “C’mon, it’s freezing out here.”

They go through security in an awkward silence.  Foggy's waiting for them on the other side, gnawing on something in a Starbucks bag.  He stuffs it into his briefcase when he spots them, and stands with arms open.

"Good news!" he says, as soon they’re within range.  "The judge is allowing the surveillance video, and we’re good to put you up on the stand.  Not that I thought you wouldn’t be, you’d make Captain America look like a petty criminal, but sometimes the other guys can be total dicks about it.  Oh hey Steve, you made it!  Up top, buddy!  Oh no, that was terrible, let’s do it again."

“Hey Foggy,” Sam manages, and accepts a handshake in lieu of a sad hi five.  They stand clumped together, Steve a little outside their circle, Lou close enough Sam can feel the warmth of her through his coat.   "We all set?"

"Yeah, we're -" Foggy starts to say, and then the door behind him cracks open and a uniformed officer sticks his head out.

"Oh," Foggy says, turning back, "they're ready for us."

The courtroom is - smaller than he was expecting.  Most of the room is filled with worn benches that look like they predate the building by fifty years.  The bench - Sam doesn't even know what it's called, some big monstrosity where the judge and witness sit cozy together - is warm, light colored wood and looks like IKEA furniture, at least from far away.  The table where he and Foggy will sit is just a table, just chairs.  The prosecution is already at their station, and when Sam and Foggy sit down they're given a distant, professional nod.  

The heavy doors open, and the jury files in.  It hits Sam harder than he would've expected: these are the people who will decide the rest of his life.  This is real, it's really happening.  He grips the bottom of his chair hard, wishing for - fuck, he might as well admit it, wishing for a cool, unyielding metal hand to take his own.  

Then he feels a little spark of hope - there's only two white people on the jury, both of them women.  Five black people, two of them men - Sam turns his head to look at Foggy, who shoots him a pleased smile and a wiggle of his eyebrows.  He leans in close to speak quietly in Sam's ear.  "Baby's first jury selection," he says.  "We did great, and not just on racial demographics."  

Foggy leans back onto his seat and settles his shoulders.  "Yeah, I'm feelin’ myself."

Sam looks over his shoulder - Lou and Steve had taken up seats directly behind them, and they're sitting tight together even though the rest of the courtroom is pretty empty.  No reason why it wouldn't be, but the big doors remain closed and the few other people scattered around the room - court reporters or law students, maybe - remain strangers.  

Sam fidgets through the prosecution's opening statement.  The ADA is a white dude, with that no color hair and a nice suit.  He barely looks over at Sam when he talks, directing most everything to the jury.  Sam watches their faces anxiously, as the prosecutor describes in detail the facts of the case: a legal police stop, a legal search, a real and present threat.

"The defense does not deny that the assault took place," he says, and makes the briefest of eye contact with Sam.  "This is as clear-cut a decision you can make, as a jury.  You've heard the charges, and it's your duty to carry the law.  Thank you."

Foggy stands, adjusting his suit.  "The defense does not deny that _an_ assault took place," he says, still behind the table.  "But not the one my friend Mr Shuyler says happened.  

"To tell the court that my client is a hero is an understatement," Foggy says, speaking equally to the judge and jury.  "Staff Sergeant Wilson was an elite airman who served eight years as a pararescue in the United States Air Force.  Members of the jury, if you're not familiar with pararescue - let me assure you, you are looking at the closest thing we had to a modern day super soldier, before Iron Man came to town.  More on that later."

The jury looks at Sam with interest, who tries not to make any sudden moves.  He feels itchy all over, like someone's ruffling his feathers the wrong way.

"So what is my client doing _here_?"  Foggy shrugs.  He looks terribly sincere, even in the flickering fluorescent of the courtroom.  "Bad luck, if you can believe it.  The bad luck to cross paths with two officers who have numerous claims related to the use of excessive force - one of whom has been the subject of no fewer than _three_ suits brought against the NYPD in the last seven years.  It was nothing more than bad luck that led Staff Sergeant Wilson to be targeted by a discriminatory policing tactic that NYC courts declared unconstitutional _two months_ before this incident occurred."

Sam shifts in his seat, but it’s no use; he can’t get comfortable.

" _Yes_ , my client defended himself against an unwarranted assault - but he's no more a threat to the public than my grandmother is.   _Less_ of a threat, even - my grandmother grew up in Hell's Kitchen during the bad old days."

An appreciative chuckle from some of the jury.  Foggy smiles at them, smiles briefly at Sam.  "Staff Sergeant Wilson is a hero," Foggy says again, turning back to the jury quick enough that he probably misses the look on Sam's face.  "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, to punish my client for defending himself might be carrying out the letter of the law, but it would most certainly be an injustice against a good man."

With that, the trial begins in earnest.  

It's a lot less exciting than Sam would have expected.  Instead of the sort of neat, expository conversation he's seen on TV, there are excruciatingly drawn out Q&As.  Officer Daniels is the first witness for the prosecution, and any nerves Sam feels dies during the full ten minutes it takes for Mr Schuyler to walk Daniels just through his service history.  

"You're a police officer with ...?"

"The NYPD."

"How long have you been with the NYPD?"

"Three years."

"Where did you work before you worked at the NYPD?"

"I worked in Suffolk County."

"For how long?"

And so on and so on.  Even Sam's attention flags.  He lets go of the pills in his pocket and tucks his arms around himself instead, rubbing a little at his arms.  Foggy nudges him, subtle.  "It’s freezing in here," Sam whispers.

"Jury's watching," Foggy whispers back.  Maybe.  Some of them are: at attention, pencils out, taking notes.  Some of them look like they're sleeping with their eyes open.  Sam straightens up, uncrosses his arms anyway.

He can hear Lou and Steve talking quietly to each other, soft enough that he can’t quite make out the words over the drone of Daniels and Shuyler’s back and forth, over the scratch of Foggy’s pencil, making studious notes.  Maybe Lou’s reading Steve the riot act; she’d had a lot to say about him right after Sam and James had broken up.  

"You were on duty that morning?"

"Yeah."

"How were you dressed?"

"In my department-issued uniform."

"What does that consist of?"

Behind him, he hears Lou laugh - that little snorting laugh she makes when she’s trying real hard not to.  He twitches, trying not to turn around; Foggy glances at him, curious, and Sam shakes his head, gives a taut smile.  What the fuck is going on back there?  

He tips his chin into his chest, trying not to let the jury see him grit his teeth.  But then Lou snorts again and he can’t help it, the little burst of warmth in his chest; he bites down quick on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling.  She sounds so _dumb_ when she laughs like that and he hasn’t heard her do it in - _weeks_ , probably, that they’ve filled their apartment mostly with dread and quiet talk about his court case.  He can’t even remember the last time he heard her really laugh.

He breathes a little easier, listening to Daniels talk.  When he has a chance - a moment where Shuyler steps back to reference his notes - he sneaks a look over his shoulder, to see what’s going on.  Lou and Steve are both watching Daniels, faces set and posture identical: leaning forward on the bench, shoulders up, one knee crossed over the other.  They’re holding hands.

"We'd received a call about a possible robbery on Nostrand Avenue that morning," Daniels says, and Sam turns back, refocuses.  

"What was the call regarding?" Mr Shuyler says.

"A possible robbery," Daniels repeats, unruffled.  He looks like he's telling his friends a story, nothing too exciting, relaxed and casual in the witness stand.  

"How was the suspect described?"

"Leading," Foggy calls out, without looking up from his notes.

"What information were you given by the dispatcher?"

"Black male, gray hoodie, six foot."

That'd be nice.  Sam can feel the eyes of the jury on him, evaluating.  Finally Daniels' testimony turns from single sentences to paragraphs as he describes the encounter, as he calls it: sloppily, with a lot of extraneous detail.  Sam's CO would've had his head.

"No, the suspect just - went crazy.  My partner and me, we did the beat in East New York for a few years, so we seen a lotta - stuff.  But nothin like this, it was like the Terminator was attackin us.  When he twisted my arm I thought it was gonna come out its socket, he was so strong."

"What was his expression at this point?"

"Very aggressive.  I've never seen a look like that on anyone's face.  You could uh, you could tell he was lookin right through you.  There was nothing else he was seein, it was like lookin into the face of a wild animal."

"What the fuck," Sam mouths to Foggy, covering his mouth with one hand.

"Pick your battles," Foggy whispers.

"Pick this one," Sam whispers back, furious.  Foggy grimaces, but doesn't call out.  He's up in a few minutes anyway, once Mr Shuyler turns to the judge and says, "No further questions."

An officer of the court sets up a big blown up photo of Sam's mugshot on a cheap easel.  His eyes are bloodshot from being maced.  The wound on his cheekbone is purple and ugly, grainy with the bad quality of the digital film.  It's hard to look at, even beyond the throb of shame he feels remembering all of it; it had taken almost a month for the gash to heal, and it left a scar, just a little knobbly keloid right on the bone.  There's still a smudge of blood on his chin that he must have missed, cleaning his face off with the Kleenex they'd given him.  At the bottom of the photo, there's blood all over his shoulder, almost obscuring the Air Force logo on his sweatshirt.

"How did this occur?" Foggy asks.

"The suspect was resisting arrest," Daniels says.

"Specifically," Foggy says, and taps his own cheek. "What about this?"

"While resisting arrest, it became necessary to restrain the suspect," Daniels says.

"How was he restrained?"

"With handcuffs."

"How did handcuffs cause this injury?"

A pause.  "The suspect hit his head while being restrained."

Foggy glances at the jury.  "Okay," he says, and taps a finger against the edge of one nostril, where Sam's got a crust of blood.  "How about this?"

They go through each injury, and then the intake sheet from Central Booking, listing out Sam’s strained shoulder - "How did that happen?"  "The suspect resisted arrest." - strained wrist - “The suspect was struggling during the search.” - the blurry vision from the mace, the cuts on his fingers, his labored breathing - but it isn’t until Foggy goes back to their desk and ruffles dramatically through Sam’s arrest folder that Daniels falters.  

“Help me out here,” Foggy says, coming up empty handed.  “I couldn’t find a report for your injuries.”

Daniels stares at Foggy, stonily.  He’s a good looking guy, and he looks handsome in his uniform.  “Is there a question?” the judge says, after a pause.

“You said it was like being attacked by the Terminator.  That you almost had your arm ripped off, yeesh," Foggy says, and gives a theatrical little shudder.  "But there's nothing here about you getting any medical attention.  Weren't you injured?"

There’s a long moment of silence where Daniels’ expression gets harder and harder.  “No,” he says, eventually.

“Oh,” Foggy says.  From this angle Sam can’t see his face, but he can see the jurors’, as they take that in.  “No further questions.”

-

 

"The defense would like to call the defendant, Staff Sergeant Wilson, to the stand."

He feels, acutely, every eye on him.  It's the second day of the trial, and Foggy had rounded up an expert on PTSD, an Air Force historian, and a counselor from the same VA office Sam goes to twice a week.  The jury's been hearing about what a great guy he is all morning, but they haven’t heard a word out of Sam himself since he stood up yesterday and said, "Not guilty."  

They watch him silently as he scrapes his chair out from under the table, as he adjusts his suit and takes a breath.  He’s tired; he’d given in last night and taken a sleeping pill, and he’s still groggy with it.  Behind him, Lou and Steve are absolutely silent, and he doesn't risk a look back.  It's a long walk, up to the bench.  The heels of his dress shoes click softly on the wooden floor.

He’d woken up thinking about - had been dreaming about, maybe, in the way you dream during a fever - his first few weeks in the Pararescue Development Course.  He'd gone straight from boot camp and had spent weeks, from dawn to dusk, getting the shit kicked out of him as they winnowed out the chaff from the guys who might eventually wear that maroon beret.

Each day, they'd bled people.  A guy Sam had sat next to at breakfast would be in his dress blues before dinner, standing outside of the Commandant's office and waiting to be relieved.  Guys that couldn't hack it, or had seen that big mountain and decided that the climb wasn't for them.  It had gotten to Sam once or twice - no way it couldn't, since they'd started with over two hundred people and were down to fifty by Extended Training Day.  He'd wondered: _do these guys know something I don't?_

It'd been the suspense that had almost done him in - not the training, not the exhaustion, not being one of six black guys in the whole class and the only one to make it to ETD, not the water confidence or the psychological warfare from their trainers.  So he and Riley had made it a competition just between the two of them, pushing each other to dig deeper, do better, and every day they finished falling into their shitty cots instead of going home was a fucking victory.

And when ETD had come, that make it or break it day, he'd come out of it certain that if he could survive that, he could survive anything.  And he has, so far - even when it’s strange to think of the person he used to be, back when that day had been the worst thing that had ever happened to him.  

He feels quiet.  Prepared.  He undoes the bottom button on his jacket once he’s on the stand, gets settled.  

Foggy drifts over close while some officers of the court set up the television.  It could be the same old ass TV they used to trot out in elementary school when Sam's class had a sub.  "You good?" he asks, sotto voce, and because Sam’s really trying these days he takes a second to think about it.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, let’s do this.”

“Cool,” Foggy says, and clears his throat.  

“Hi,” he says, loud enough that the rest of the court can hear it.  “Welcome, Staff Sergeant Wilson.  How are you today?”

“Eager to have this all over with,” Sam says, and tries not to sound too short.  Friendly, relaxed, sympathetic.  They’d gone over this, about how to talk so the jury would listen to him.

“We heard from Mrs Chaudhry earlier about the intensive selection process of pararescue, and the type of missions someone with your qualifications would be used for,” Foggy says.  “I’d like to open with a little more history about your service in particular.”

“Relevance?” says Mr Shuyler, and Foggy looks at the judge, betrayed.

"Establishing character," he says, and the judge shrugs.  Foggy looks back at Sam, his expression expectant.  Over Foggy's shoulder, between the wooden railing separating council from the public, Lou and Steve are sitting close together, Lou’s hand wrapped around Steve’s arm, his hand over hers.  As he looks at them, Lou sucks in a deep breath, hard enough that her shoulders rise with it, and Steve winces faintly.

"Well, I uh, I enlisted in the Air Force in 2002," Sam says.  "After qualifying for pararescue, training's about two years.  So my first tour was in 2004, in Iraq."

"How long were you over there?"

"Tours are about six months each.  I had two in Iraq," Sam says.  "Then two in Afghanistan.  My enlistment ended in 2012."

"What did you do, while you were over there?"

"I ran medical support for SAS in Basra," Sam answers.  "I was attached to a large task force in the region and provided support for Quick Reaction Forces - the people who get called in when something goes wrong during ordinary operations.  When not QRF support, I set up field hospitals for civilians, provided basic medical care."

He tries not to watch the jury, as he speaks.  It's too much, to try and catch every expression, try and suss out what they're thinking: guilty, not guilty.  He watches Foggy, and then Lou, and then Steve.  Then back to Foggy.  Back straight.  Take even breaths.  Speak more slowly than you think you should.  Calm.  Sympathetic.   _Articulate_.

"Are you still a member of the armed services?"

"Yeah, I'm in the reserve.  Will be for another year or so.  Due to get called up in the spring for some training, but that'll be the end of my career with the Air Force."

"What's your plan," Foggy says, "now that you're back in the world?  What are your next steps?”

"I'm in the Master's program for Mental Health Counseling at Hunter College.  I'd like to work for the VA, as a counselor."

"Wow," Foggy says, even though he knew that already, even though they rehearsed all this and the questions he might expect once it's time for cross examination.  "That's amazing, you're still dedicating your life to helping other people."

Like they practiced, Sam says, “I’ve been on both sides of it.  I was diagnosed with PTSD, during my discharge.  And I’m in counseling now.  Group meetings twice a week at the VA, and I see a private therapist.  Oh, and I was prescribed anti-depressants.”

“That sounds like a lot,” Foggy says.

“Yeah, uh,” Sam says, and blows out a breath.  He risks a glance over at the jury: they're listening.  Lou and Steve are listening too.  He folds his hands together, holds on.  "It's been hard to adjust.  When you do what I did, you stop thinking about survival.  If you do, it's too much - it'd be paralyzing.  You couldn't do what you needed to do, if your mind’s on anything but the problem that's right in front of you.  I had no idea I was in like that and it's uh, it's taking a lot to get out.  But I'm doing it.”

Foggy nods, his face a picture of compassion.  He sweeps that look across the jury, and then says, “Okay, let’s move on.  Gotta talk about why you’re here, right?”

So they do.  They go through the morning.  Sam’s run through the park.  Getting coffee at the bodega.  They leave out where Sam was going and why, because a boyfriend waiting at home is irrelevant and they don’t want the jury to get distracted.  They watch the surveillance video, from the grocery store.  Once all the way through, and then Foggy rewinds and they watch it again, stopping at key points.

The first few seconds, when they’d called him over.  When Sam had been pushed up against the wall.  When Daniels had crouched a little, feeling between Sam’s legs.  When it had all gone wrong.  Sam breaking loose of Daniels, neatly disarming him.  Floyd yanking his gun out, getting it caught on his belt.  The video is grainy, and it shakes a little as they watch.  Sam on his knees.  Sam on the ground.  Sam with Daniels' knee in his back.  The figures are blobs of blue, gray, pink and black: featureless.  It could be anyone.

"The arrest was also captured on social media," Foggy says, and introduces two photocopied packets, one for Sam to read, one for the jury.

The first image is Sam: his prone body on the sidewalk, his hands behind his back.  "If you would," Foggy prompts.

"Just watched this guy get crazy beat by cops at Nostrand," Sam reads out.  "Hashtag police brutality, hashtag Trayvon Martin, hashtag racism, hashtag stay woke."

"The next?"

Sam clears his throat, holds the paper in both hands to keep it from rattling.  This one's got Sam's face in profile, blood dripping from his nose and chin.  "Fuck the police," he reads.  "Hashtag NYPD, hashtag stop and frisk."

The jury is quiet, listening.  Sam can hear pages turning, but he doesn’t look over.  His body burns; he feels naked and exposed.  They give the jury a break before the cross, and he stands in the hallway, gulping down cold water from a fountain, focusing on Lou’s hand rubbing between his shoulders.

Steve had followed him and Lou out into the hall, and he’s standing a little apart from them, typing furiously into his phone with both thumbs.  Sam’s almost used to seeing him now, almost used to the cramp in his gut.  Is Steve texting James?  Of course he is.  James is probably getting a play by play of the whole thing.  Maybe he’s not, though.  Maybe James doesn’t want to know.  

Steve glances up, sees Sam staring at him, and they both look away.  He feels like an idiot.  Like he should be keeping his head in the game - this is his _life_ , right here right now, being decided today - but he can’t, he _hurts_.  Fuck.   _Fuck_.

When he looks up Steve’s watching him, shoulders up around his ears and his phone tucked out of sight.  For a second he thinks Steve’s gonna say something - _he wishes he could be here_ , or _he misses you_ , or _he wants me to tell you to get fucked_ \- and then Steve says, expression unchanged, “I don’t know who the fuck decided Dunkin Donuts had great coffee.”

Sam laughs; he can’t help it.  It’s just a little huff of air but it takes the pressure off, just a little.  “Seriously, this fuckin sludge,” Steve says, shaking the remnants of the cup he’d been holding tucked between his elbow and side.  “I’m gonna go out and get something that doesn’t suck.  What do you want?  Large, black, a ton of sugar?”

Sam nods wordlessly; that’s exactly how he takes his coffee.   _What are you doing here?_ Sam thinks again, but doesn’t ask this time, just lets Steve take Lou and Foggy’s coffee order too and stride off towards the outside world.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Sam asks Lou instead, once he’s gone.  Lou looks thoughtful, her arms crossed over her chest, but Foggy glances up from his phone.  

“What, you didn’t ask him to come?” he asks, sounding surprised.

Sam shakes his head.  “I didn’t ask anyone,” he says, which is true.  He hadn’t had a choice about Lou being here.  Foggy shrugs, diffident, and goes back to texting.  Reflexively, Sam digs his own phone out of his pocket, turns it back on.  And like he has half a dozen times since yesterday morning, he scrolls all the way down his message history until he hits _James Barnes_ : thumbs hovering over the screen, breathless, needing, rereading those last few dumb texts he’d sent when James was still saved under _Boo Thang._

Then, as he’s staring at the screen, it shifts: the little typing icon appears.  He watches it, fascinated; it goes away, reappears.  Stays for long seconds as his heart tries to beat its way out of his chest.  James is texting Sam.  He’s - what’s he going to say?  Why is he -

The icon disappears again, and doesn’t come back.  Sam waits, gripping the phone.  Come on.   _Come on._  

“Sam,” Lou says, impatient like it’s not the first time she’s said it.

“What,” Sam says, eyes fixed on the screen.  

“Sam, we gotta go back in,” she says, and Sam closes his eyes.  Locks the phone, and then unlocks it and powers down.

“Yeah,” he says.  “Okay.”

The witness stand is hard, and cold, and uncomfortable under his butt.  Everyone in the courtroom is looking at him.  Mr Shuyler steps up to the witness stand, stops a foot or so away, close enough that Sam feels the urge to lean back in his seat.  He stays where he is.

“Mr Nelson says you’re not any more dangerous than his grandmother,” Shuyler says, abruptly.  “But that’s not really true, is it?”

Sam says nothing.  “Answer the question,” the judge says, after a moment.

“Not sure I can,” Sam says.  “I’ve never met Mr Nelson’s grandmother.”

The jury laughs.  Behind Foggy, Steve grins, sidelong.  Lou's expression is hard; she looks like their mother, about to come after Sam and his smart mouth with a wooden spoon.  

"What were you thinking, when you took Officer Daniels’ gun from him?” Shuyler asks.  

Sam looks at Foggy instinctively, but Foggy’s face gives nothing away, no guidance.  “I wasn’t thinking,” he answers, which is the truth.  “I just reacted.”

“What would’ve happened next?” Shuyler asks.  “Would you have shot him?”

“Objection,” Foggy says, and the judge says, “On what grounds?”

“ - Prejudicial,” Foggy says, after a beat.  

“Hardly,” the judge says.  “I’ll allow it.”

“In a combat situation, yes,” Sam answers, slowly.  “If we believe our lives are in danger, we shoot.”

“So what stopped you?” Shuyler asks.

Sam licks his lips, trying not to let anything he’s thinking leak out into his expression.  “I wouldn’t have been very good at my job if I couldn’t make threat assessments very quickly,” he says.  

“And you’re _very_ _good_ at your job,” Shuyler says meaningfully, eyebrows raised.  “We’ve been hearing about that all morning.”

Sam blows out a breath.  “I know where you’re going with this,” he says.

“Enlighten the court,” Shuyler says, and Foggy’s eyes widen, just a hair, all the warning he can probably give Sam right now.

Sam knits his fingers together over his stomach, keeps his spine straight.  “You want me to say I’m a threat.  That the Air Force made me dangerous.  Maybe.  But I was _trained_ to be that way.  Those cops are dangerous because you _let them_.”

“No, we train the NYPD to be like that,” Shuyler says, mild as milk.

“Isn’t that _worse_?” Sam asks, and Shuyler looks confused, pausing long enough that Sam can keep talking.  “Look, I used to pitch myself out of planes for a living.  They'd send us in when they couldn't figure out any other way our guys could make it out alive.  One time I pulled a suicide vest off a guy and carried it two hundred yards myself, to get it far enough away from any civilians. I was so close when it went it blew out both my eardrums.  Couldn't hear right for weeks.  I provided neonatal care, some of the villages we went to.  Wasn’t an expert, but I was the best they had.  I did a lot of good over there.  But it _doesn’t matter_.”

“Mr Wilson, if it doesn’t matter, why has your record in the Air Force been the bulk of your defense?” Shuyler says.

“I didn’t want that,” Sam says, and sees Foggy wince.  Fuck it, he knew that was how Sam felt.  “Being a veteran sure as hell didn’t matter a few months ago, when all this went down.  If it hadn’t been me, it would’ve been someone else, or they wouldn’t have had all those complaints against them we can’t talk about here.  And what would that other guy say, to defend himself?  I’m not some _exception_.  Whatever I’ve done in my life didn’t matter as much as what color I am.”

“Oh, so this is about race?” Mr Shuyler says, with one arched eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and looks him straight in the eye when he says it.  “Yeah, it is.”

Over Shuyler’s shoulder, Lou has one hand pressed over her mouth, her eyes wide.  Foggy’s looking down at his notes, brow knitted together.  Steve is pressed as far forward as he can get, on his bench.  Juror number four is smiling.  

Shuyler turns away for a moment, and Sam watches him rub a hand over his face, getting himself together.  His expression, when he turns back, is smooth.  “We’re not here to debate racial inequality,” he says.  “We’re here because you broke the law and assaulted two police officers.”

“The _law’s_ unequal,” Sam asks.  “ _That’s_ the reason I’m here.  Those cops saw someone they thought they could mess with, and they were right.”

“Redirect,” Foggy calls, “Your Honor, what my client is trying to say is fully in line with our opening statement.  Given the unconstitutional nature of the law, and its unequal application to minorities, my client had a reasonable belief that excessive force was being used.  His actions against the NYPD were sheer self defense.”

Sam looks over at the jury.  Juror number four looks steadily back.  Jurors ten and twelve, also.  Juror number three has her arms crossed over her chest, back ramrod straight.  The alternate is dozing.  

“Is that correct, Staff Sergeant Wilson?” asks the judge, and after a moment Sam says, “Sure.”

Eventually, the prosecution rests and then, the defense.  There are some final instructions to the jury, and then they file out of the room to decide Sam’s fate.  Everyone begins to stir quietly, like they've just been released from a play.  That was it.  The end.  Nothing more he could do.

They go out to the hall and stand there for a minute.  Foggy's looking at Sam; Lou’s looking at Sam; Steve’s looking at Sam.  Sam digs his phone out of his pocket, powers it back on.  Tugs Lou close and hugs her, while it loads.  

The phone buzzes while it’s still in his hand.  “Scuze me for a second,” he says, soft in Lou’s ear, and walks to the bathroom, shuts himself in one of the stalls.  

Thumbs open his phone and reads, _knew ud make a gr8 cap America._

Sam laughs out loud at that.   _Best one you ever saw_ , he answers.  He sags against the wall, rubs the heel of one hand hard over his heart like he could squeeze all the emotion out that way.  

The typing icon pops up immediately, like James had already had his phone in hand.   _u look gr8 in a suit._

Reflexively, Sam peeks through the little gap in the door, even though he knows well enough that he’s alone.   _You’re here??_ Sam asks.   _Not just getting the play by play from Steve?_

 _dont make it weird,_ James says.

 _You got that covered_ , Sam types out, _creepin’ around like I wouldn’t want you here_.  Stares at that for a minute, deletes the second sentence, hits send.

 _u know me_ , James says. _good luck cap._

Sam’s impulse is to take a selfie, saluting.  He stares down at his phone long enough that the words blur together.   _Don’t need it_ , he says, finally.  

He turns the phone back off, slips it back into his pocket.  Washes his hands.  Looks at his own steady expression in the mirror, under the harsh lights.  “Okay,” he says, to himself.  “Let’s do this.”

They don’t wait too long.  They wait hours.  Feels like they wait years.  Every ten minutes Foggy has another prognostic.  It’s better if they don’t come back too fast.  An hour is nothing.  Two hours is fine.  They’ve got a lot to discuss.  Then, finally -

The jury files back into the room.  They look at the foreman.  The foreman looks at the judge.  

"Ladies and gentleman of the jury," the judge says, "have you reached a verdict?"

 


	14. Chapter 14

****  


_Hung jury_

__

_Fkin figures_

_U ok?_

__

_I’m not going to prison today, that’s all I care about_

_I can take the rest one day at a time_

__

_Ok u lmk_

__

_Let you know what?_

_James?  Let you know what?_

-

 ****  


On the seat next to Sam is a backpack, stuffed nearly full: t-shirts, underwear, a couple bracelets, a portable hard drive full of action movies, two books Sam had borrowed from Hannah and never gotten around to reading.  On the face of it, it doesn’t feel like much: at least, it’s a lot lighter than his school bag, which is sitting at his feet.  Next to Steve is a worn Army duffle, full of - he doesn't even remember, probably his toothbrush and toiletries.  A few shirts Sam's been missing.  Nothing he really needed back.

Sam's come all the way to Midtown to make this exchange, to that weird cafe across from Grand Central that Steve likes so much.  They’re indoors this time, in a space more old school New York than Sam had expected.  There are waiters wearing ties, wandering around with bread baskets.  There are white linens on the table.

"How you been?" Sam says, taking a sip of his water.  

"Um, fine," Steve says, looking caught out.  “What about you, how are you doing?  After, you know -”

"You know how I've been," Sam says, a little uncomfortably.  "You got to hear all about what I been up to since -"  He hesitates, finishes, "I'm okay.  Just focusing on taking care of myself."

Steve nods, turning his mug around and around between his hands.  “So what happens next?” he asks.

“The question of the hour,” Sam says, measured.  “Way the courts work here, it could be another year before they put a second trial together.  Could be they don’t at all.  Foggy’s going to bring a civil suit against the city, for - well, he’s got a whole list.  Could end up getting bargained down to nothing, to get us to drop it.  Guess the city will go pretty far to avoid anything actually getting brought to court.”

“They took you to court,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Sam says.  “I guess - Foggy thinks the only reason the first trial happened was that they wanted to make an example of me.  Strengthen the city’s appeal to keep Stop & Frisk on the books.  Didn’t work so well for them, that the jury didn’t throw the book at me.”

Steve shakes his head again.  “Shoulda been an acquittal,” he says, and sounds genuinely angry about it.    

“Yeah, maybe in the movies,” Sam says.  “This is probably the best I could hope for, in the real world.  Maybe more.”

Steve worries a fingernail between his teeth, clearly stewing.  Sam waits it out, drains the rest of his water glass, sets it on the edge of the table for a refill.  "You must be awful relieved," Steve says eventually.  

Sam says, "Brother, you don't know the half of it.”

Steve’s smile falters, and he looks away.  There's a beat of strained silence, and Sam says, "I wanted to say thanks for -" at the same time the Steve says, "Look, I was a huge asshole to you and I'm -"

They both stop, and Steve laughs.  It sounds a little strained.  Steve had arrived at the restaurant bundled in about ten layers and he's still got most of them on.  He fidgets with the sleeves of his sweater rather than say anything else.  "This is weird," he says.

"Were you trying to say sorry?" Sam asks.  "Is that what that was?"

"Yeah," Steve says.  Swaddled in his sweaters, hunched over his tea, he looks like a dapper, belligerent baby owl.  "Yeah, I'm sorry."

“I was an asshole to you too,” Sam says, after a moment.  Steve shrugs, eyebrows lifting like he's telling a joke to himself.

“Most times I deserve it,” he says, smiling crookedly.  It falls off his face pretty quick, though, so it’s a relief when the server comes over to take their order.

“It’s good to see you,” Steve ventures, after she’s refilled their coffees and walked off.  Abruptly, he strips off the cable knit sweater he's got on, revealing another sweater underneath, intricately patterned with tiny stars.  “Under, you know, better circumstances."

“Thanks for meeting me,” Sam says.  

Steve shakes his head, sharp.  “Hannah says hi.  There's uh, there’s a gift in the duffle from her.”

“Oh,” Sam says and then, “uh, tell her thanks.  I didn’t -”

“Yeah,” Steve says.  “No, it’s -”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and laughs, soft.  “This is weird.”

“Wasn’t so bad at the courthouse,” Steve ventures, and Sam shrugs.  

“Had bigger things to worry about,” he says.  “And it was kinda weird.”

Steve puts both hands around his mug, lifts it up to his lips but doesn't drink.  He’s been staring at Sam, tentative in a way Sam’s never seen before.  “I got something on my face?” Sam asks, mild.

“Just your face,” Steve answers.  He takes a sip of coffee and burns his tongue on it, drawing the kind of horrible expression Sam remembers liking, back when the thing between him and James had been new.  “Thanks for um,” Steve says, like nothing had happened, curling his tongue against his teeth like a cat that smells something it doesn’t like.  “Letting me say I’m sorry.  Sorry for blowin up your phone too, I haven’t said that yet.  I was - yeah, I was surprised when you texted.  I know you got a lotta good reasons to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Sam says, after a moment, because it’s the truth.  It would’ve been a lot easier if he did, but him and Steve, they’d been friends too.  “It wasn’t about you.  I mean, you didn’t help.  But him and me, we screwed it up on our own.  I know what I said maybe sounded like that was the reason, but - there was a lot going on.  You don’t owe me anything, Steve.”

Steve smiles, briefly.  Grabs a roll out of the basket, but only tears it in half and starts spreading butter around, like he needs something to do.  Sam frowns.  “Do you?” he asks.  “There something you’re not telling me here?”

He’s aware, keenly, of his heart pounding.  Through the window he can see people rushing back and forth, commuter and tourist indistinguishable from each other when everyone's wrapped up in big fluffy black coats, hurrying to get indoors as soon as possible.  Here and there someone's got a coat of a different color - red, maybe, or tan.  They stick to the eye even in the busyness of 42nd St and Grand Central Station, hidden from view by the pedestrian overpass that makes up the roof of the restaurant.

Steve looks back up, and surprises ripples over his face: at the look on Sam’s, maybe.  “No,” he says, “no, nothing like that, I told you.”

“Then what is it?” Sam says.

Unexpectedly, Steve grins, bracing his chin on one fist.  “Ahh, you know,” he says.  “I do better when I got a problem to solve.  But I’m uh, I’m learning to stay in my lane.”

Sam leans back in his seat, eyebrows raised.  “Is that so?”

Steve lifts his eyebrows and drops them.   _Suppose so._

“Good,” Sam says.  “Glad to hear it.”  He adds, tentatively, feeling little bits of his chest unlock, “I uh, I talked a lot about all that with my therapist.  I get it now, why - ”  He trails off, uncomfortably.

Steve nods eagerly, like this is a full explanation.  “Good,” he says.  “That’s good, Sam.  You gotta take care of yourself.”

Sam says nothing, and Steve goes pink all over, looks away.  “Come on, man,” he says, mulish.  “You wanna ride my ass all afternoon?”

“What, were you done staying in your lane?” Sam asks.  “Just a five minute detour?”  

Steve sighs out loud and stuffs his mouth full of bread, in a gesture of defeat.  

Their food arrives - chili for Sam, a pot pie for Steve, who stabs his dish immediately with a fork to let out a big gust of steam.  Sam picks his spoon up, twitching the heavy silver between two fingers.  Steve watches him do it.

“I’m just gonna ask,” Sam says.  “I wanna rip the bandaid off.”

Steve swallows.  He reaches for his coffee mug, checks the motion, goes for the water glass instead.  “All right,” he says, jaw firming.  “Go ahead and ask.”

“What is up with you and him?” Sam says.  “If it’s not that, what is it?  Look, I made myself sick making up stories about you two.  I’m done wondering, I wanna know.”

Steve looks down at the table.  “Yeah,” he says.  “Yeah, I know you had a lot of reason to think, him and me were, y’know, still a thing,” he says.  “I shoulda - I mean, I know how we come off.  I shoulda been better about it."

"Yep," Sam says, and Steve flops back into his seat, scowling.

“I don’t know,” Steve says, crossing his arms over his chest.  “He’s my brother.  He’s my best friend.  I feel like a fuckin idiot,” he says to the ceiling.  “I _am_ a fuckin idiot.  I just wanted him to be happy and instead - I was rooting for you guys, forreal.  I _told_ him he oughta call you, I told him he -"

Steve shuts his mouth abruptly, shakes his head.  

“He can do what he wants,” Sam says, steady, and mostly believes it, mostly because, “He will anyway, you know that.  I just don’t wanna deal with head games.”

Steve frowns.  “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Sam says, and lifts one shoulder.  “Texting, and then _not_.  I don’t get what he’s playing at.”

Steve’s head just tilts, his frown getting deeper.  “What are you talkin about?” he asks, and Sam has to laugh a little, because he looks so honestly confused.

“How he was,” Sam says, and gestures, because it sounds so dumb out loud, “creeping around somewhere in the courthouse during my trial, and texting me, and like I haven’t heard from him since.  These fucking head games, man, I can’t deal with - ”

He laughs again, even though he feels confused too: Steve’s face flashes from puzzlement to fury in the span of Sam’s fumbling explanation.  “You uh,” Sam says, “you look like this is news to you.”

Steve makes a noise of sheer frustration, and frames his face with his hands, careful like he wants to tug out all his hair instead.  “Yep,” he says.  “That _fuckin asshole_.  I thought he was still asleep, when I left the house.  We coulda shared a car but _no_ , _someone’s_ gotta play covert ops and someone’s gotta ride the fuckin C train by himself.”

At that Sam cracks up for real, snorting into his hand while Steve just looks madder and madder.  It’s Steve that calms down first, settling his chin onto both fists and looking thoughtful.  “I’m gonna kill him,” he says, thoughtfully.

“So you don’t know what he’s up to,” Sam says, and Steve shakes his head.  

“I don’t know,” he says.  “The way he was talking after you guys broke up, I thought he didn’t want nothing to do with you.”

It hurts, to hear that.  Down low in his chest, it hurts, and then it kicks like a drum: Steve doesn’t _know_.  “How do you not _know_?” Sam asks.  “I mean, you guys are -”  And here he’s at a loss for words, to some way to describe Steve and James and _Steve-and-James_ , when Steve still hasn’t explained himself.  

“Guess not,” Steve says, and he sounds surprised about it too.  “I don’t know, Sam.  He didn’t tell me he was talking to you.”

“He hasn’t since,” Sam says, and Steve rolls his eyes, his whole body a picture of exasperation.

“Now that _doesn’t_ surprise me,” he says.  “Nah, it’s just - I dunno, you didn’t know him back before then.  He used to be more, uhm.  Steady, I guess.”

And it’s some dumb, wistful impulse that has Sam asking, because he might never get a chance to know otherwise: “What was he like?”

Steve’s mouth twists, thinking on it.  “He was a real sweet guy,” he says, finally.  “Yeah.”

“He’s still sweet,” Sam says, and Steve tucks his chin further into his hands, pushing his glasses up at an angle off his face.  

“Yeah,” he says, and sighs.  “He’s the best.”

“He’s an ass,” Sam says, and Steve grins.

“Yeah, he’s that too,” he agrees, and then his eyes go far off, and his face goes red and blotchy for no reason Sam can see.

“You okay?” he asks, cautiously, and Steve’s eyes refocus.

“Yeah,” he says, and clears his throat.  “Yeah, uhm.  I was just thinking about something.  You uhm, you wanted to know what our deal was, right?  I can tell you, uh.  About it.  If you want.  I mean, it’s not gonna make you _like_ me.  Probably the opposite.  But, uhm.  If you wanted to know what my baggage is.  About him, I mean.”  

“I don’t know anything that’d make me like you,” Sam tells him, and from the tilt of Steve’s mouth he’s hearing it as the joke Sam means it to be, but he doesn’t say anything for a long minute.  He stares off at - at the waiters, bustling around them, at all the people close enough to listen in if they wanted - and rubs the heel of his hand against his forehead, wiping off a bit of sweat at his hairline.  

He clears his throat again.  “When we thought Bucky’d been killed -”

Steve cuts himself off.  He looks up at Sam, shakes his head.  

"I coulda guessed it was about that," Sam tells him.

"It is and it isn't," Steve says.  "It's about what happened after."

Sam picks up his spoon, starts eating.  Steve's gotta go back to work in a bit but he doesn't look too rushed.  Sam doesn't feel rushed either.  He’d asked for this, after all.  He wants to hear what Steve’s finding it so hard to say.

"When the Army told us Bucky was dead, it was real bad," Steve says, and shakes his head.  "But it was worse when he came back.”

Steve rubs his hand against his forehead again, and then yanks the star sweater over his head, fiddling with the collar of his button up to set it straight.  It’s blue, with little red polka dots.  His hair stands up in fluffy little tufts.  “We didn’t have a body,” he says.  “Hell, we never even knew what he was doing over there, what his job was.  All we had was some bullshit story he got killed in a training accident, which none of us believed.  To be honest I never even really believed he was actually, really dead.  Because we didn’t _know_.  You don’t have that body, you make up all kinds of stories about how it had happened - if he’d been scared, or in pain, or - or maybe he was really alive, just he's hurt somewhere and he needed us."

Sam sets his spoon down, and it clatters against the bowl.  "Yeah," he says.  "I know how that is."

Steve looks up at him.  "Yeah?"

"Tell me the rest of it," Sam says, shaking his head.

Steve laughs, dry.  "So one day, this guy shows up at the house and says, Bucky’s still alive and we’re bringing him home.  Great news, right?  The sun shines again.  Then he says, every worst fear you ever had was true.  Every time you dreamed maybe he was still alive, but in pain, scared, getting _tortured_ : all that happened.  He'd lost so much weight, and, Sam, all the shit they'd done to him made him almost unrecognizable.  You can hardly tell now, they did such a good job fixing his face - but he was - I still got nightmares about it.  He was so fucked up, he didn't know who _we_ were.  He jokes about it now, cuz he’s a fuckin asshole.  He says he just forgot there were other names than Muhammad, which, kinda racist.  But he didn't even know us."

Steve sticks his spoon into his meal, stirs it around a little aimlessly.  "Why would he, you know?  He'd spent months living in his own shit, getting electrocuted with car batteries and having his fingernails pulled out. Why would anything matter, after that?"

Sam shifts in his seat.  He can't even really explain, but in the moment he misses James so bad his whole body aches with it, with how stupid he'd been.  He could've told James everything, but he hadn't.  “Look, where you going with this?” he asks.  “I know this part.  Skip to the part where you fucked up.  You must’ve fucked up, to be telling me all this.”

Steve laughs, real sounding.  “Yeah, okay,” he says, his mouth twisting in a wry smile.  “Yeah, I guess that’s the important part.”

Sam spreads his hands, raises his eyebrows: _I’m listening._

“I left him,” Steve says.  “Just - flipped out and left one day.  It was, uh, the day they amputated his upper arm, maybe like - a couple weeks after they brought him back to the US?  I packed a bag and split for Zuccotti Park, to join Occupy Wall Street.  Left my phone behind, didn't tell anyone where I was going.  For weeks, I was a ghost.  I had this whole dumb story I told myself, that this was history in the making and I had to be a part of it."

Sam frowns.  Steve meets his eyes.  “I’m not making excuses,” he says, chin jutted out like he’s gonna fight Sam over it.  “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right.”

"But,” Sam says, slow, “he forgave you.”  It’s not a question.

Steve’s shoulders are squared off.  "Course he did," he says, his eyes dry and red.

Sam looks down at his plate, brows knitting together.  "That's why you aren't together," he says, just to be clear.  

"Who knew crushing guilt makes a terrible fuckin foundation for a relationship," Steve says, and lifts one shoulder in a little shrug.

Sam takes a deep breath, holds it, lets it out slowly.  His mind is, unexpectedly, blank.  It makes sense.  It slots neatly into the stories they’ve never told him, the looks he’s seen them share.  He shakes his head.  “Y’all are nuts,” he says, finally.  “The shit you do to each other.  If he forgave you, why’s it matter?”

“Why you going to therapy three times a week?” Steve says, flinty.  “Why don’t you just get on with your life?”

“Alright, point taken,” Sam says.

The server comes by, picks up their dirty dishes.  “Can I get this wrapped up to go?” Steve asks, and pulls out his wallet.  “Yeah thanks.  Can you put the bill on here?”

“Thanks for lunch,” Sam says, as she walks away, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Got all my info updated.   _That_ credit card says Steve Rogers on it.”  He crosses his fingers over his stomach, leans back.  “So what now?” he asks.

“I go to therapy three times a week,” Sam says.  “I get on with my life.  What?  What’s that look for?”

“Just,” Steve says, and bites his lip.  “You gonna call him?”

The server comes back, and Steve bends to sign the check.  Sam watches the pale stretch of his neck, pink and dry from the cold, right where his hair turns soft and thin.  “I don’t think so,” he says, finally, and it sounds steady enough even though his stomach is churning and half of him wants to say _**yes** , yes I’ll call him right now._

Steve nods slowly, looking down at the check and his card like a little kid that’s been scolded.  “I get it,” he says, and offers a weak smile.  “But I ain’t gonna be the one to tell Aunt Esther.  You get a call from a 718 number, you better pick up.”

They stand, and exchange their packages.  Hefting Sam’s backpack over his shoulder, Steve looks like he’s heading back to the 8th grade.  He offers his hand, formally, and Sam pulls him into a hug.

“Nice knowing you, Steve Rogers,” he says, and feels Steve’s arms go tight around him.

“You too, Sam Wilson,” he says, and sounds like he means it.

-

 

_https://youtu.be/VgZL_Mth7N8_

_Check it out they made a new promo video for teh yoga studio_

_im in it_

_i look good ;)_

_sam?_

_u gettin these?_

-

 

He doesn’t call James.  He thinks about it, a lot.  Wakes up sometimes still reaching over to the other side of the bed.  It gets better, sort of, or at least the ache gets sweeter, and sometimes Sam even manages to go a day or two without thinking about him.

The week after he sees Steve, he goes out for beers and Japanese curry with some of his classmates, meets Lou afterwards to ride the train home together.  

The week after that, Sam crosses the threshold at the Way Station, sits by himself and watches the burlesque show.  Steve’s not performing, but Sam says hi to some of the girls in the troupe, says okay when they tell him they’ll give Steve a kiss from him.  He adds Steve on Facebook, and re-follows The Big Reville on Instragram.  Steve adds him back, DMs him about twenty happy emojis, but otherwise leaves it alone.

The week after that, he sets his alarm for 6, shoves his feet into the sneakers at the back of his closet, shrugs on a sweatshirt, and goes running.

It’s cold, miserably cold.  The streets are compacted with two months of snow, two months of ice sucking up all the grease and garbage and dog piss from the streets.  It makes for black glaciers around him, slick patches on the sidewalk where the ice is melting each day, freezing again each night.  He sets a slow and steady pace to keep from slipping and still feels winded after a half mile, so out of practice that the lactic acid burning through his muscles feels excruciating instead of comforting.

He keeps going.

He runs again the day after, goes all the way to the park.  It’s so cold that each breath cuts his throat.  His nose runs, so the day after he wraps a handkerchief around his wrist, which turns into a bright, sharp place on his body as he wets it through with sweat and snot.  

The day after, he goes to therapy.  He goes to class.  He keeps going.  He meets Tim and Lou for drinks in the West Village.  He calls his mom.  He calls his grandma.

He calls Riley’s grandma.  They talk for a long time.  He tells her some of the stories he wouldn’t have told Riley’s mom, about the two of them getting drunk in the desert, about the dumb stunts Riley used to pull when they were out in the field.  She tells him about how angry Riley’d been as a kid, about the three years he lived with her when his mom was getting her life together, how scared they’d all been when he enlisted.  

It’s a long way down to Georgia but he promises to make the trip when the weather’s better and her hip’s not plaguing her, and she promises to bake him a peach pie he’ll dream about.

When he cries, she makes soothing sounds into the phone, warm and whispery, and he ends up telling her a little about Grandpa Edwin too, about the smell of his leather jacket and the way they’d sit together and read comic books when Sam was a kid, an arm around Sam’s shoulders.

He opens up his old email account for the first time in more than a year, sends a couple emails off to the other guys he knew in EXO-7, the ones he’d heard were back stateside.  Settles in, manages to read through a few of Riley’s old emails without putting his fist into the wall.

He goes to therapy.  He goes to class.  He keeps going.

He runs.

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

They’re in Queens, probably, he thinks, some neighborhood he’s never been to and won’t remember how to get to tomorrow.  They’d pregamed in Astoria, at Jim’s friend Santiago’s house, and when they’d piled giggling out of the cab it had been to a wide street more neighborhoody than Sam was expecting, the thunderous shake of an elevated train line rattling over his head.  

This is the third bar, he thinks, he’s pretty sure, or the fourth.  In the first bar Tim had given him a pill and in the second it had started to really roll through him, but mostly he’s not sure because each one has been the same narrow space packed full of men dancing close together under the shivery, chipped light of a disco ball. This bar is lit up in electric green; the last one had been purple, or maybe the song had changed, and with it the lights.  Doesn’t matter.  He’s dancing.  He’s dancing, and Jim is behind him, and Santiago’s in front, and Sam’s got one hand resting on the flat plane of Santiago’s stomach, their shoulders brushing, just teasing little touches.

When Jim leans over to shout in his ear, Sam can’t hear it at all over the thud of the bass, loud and thrumming through him like a heartbeat.  

They follow Jim off what’s passing for the dance floor, just a narrow margin of space between the bar and the walls where there aren’t any chairs, and wash up next to Tim at the bar, who grabs his husband around the waist and drags him close.  The music obliterates whatever they’re saying to each other and replaces it with pounding, autotuned Spanish lyrics.  Sam glances at Santiago, a little hopelessly.  

Who leans in close, and shouts what Sam thinks is probably _Can I buy you a drink_ , head tilted towards the bar.

Sam nods, yells “Sure,” for good measure, and gets a quick smile in return before Santiago’s turning away, all focus turned towards flagging down one of the bartenders, elbows tucked in close.

He startles a little when Tim drapes an arm over his shoulder, bumps his temple against Sam's.  "You okay?" Tim asks, his mouth close enough to Sam's ear that it sounds almost normal.

And Sam’s still trying these days, so he lets his head rest against Tim’s and says, “Yeah, but - ”

“But it’s not your thing, huh?” Tim asks, and Sam can feel the ticklish corner of Tim’s mustache as he smiles.

“Maybe it could be my thing,” Sam says, and smiles too, both of them facing out towards the crowd.  “Thanks though.  For getting me out tonight.”

“Even though you ain’t having a good time,” Tim agrees, and Sam laughs.  Feels good to laugh, at least - to be out with his people even if yeah, going dancing always sounds better in theory for him.  He keeps waiting for the molly to take him over, to tip him out of his head and onto the dance floor until dawn, but mostly he still feels like himself, fizzy in his skin, loose enough that the music hits like a physical thing, like the beat of helicopter blades above his head had been, once upon a time.

“I’m having a good time,” he says, because he is, because even if this isn’t his thing it’s _some_ thing.  

On Tim’s other side, Jim is beaming; someone, at least, is having a lot of fun.  He puts his arms around both his husband and Sam, and yells something in Sam’s direction.  "See, you can have fun without Fuckboy!" is what Sam catches the second time Jim says it, and something sours in Sam's stomach.  
  
"Why you gotta bring him up?" he yells back, but Jim grins at him, maybe not getting it, maybe not caring.  He tips his chin, towards where Santiago's grabbing two long necked beers in each long fingered hand.  An eyebrow waggle follows, just in case Sam isn’t.

And yeah, maybe.  He’d caught a vibe back in Astoria, in Santiago’s little apartment, and it’d been Sam who’d wrapped a hand over Santiago’s hip and tugged him close on the dance floor.  It feels good to flirt.  He’s missed it, the game of it, finding the right smile and tone and body language: he _likes_ to flirt.  He and Santiago had talked - nothing serious, just about New York City and some bars they liked, how expensive rent is, the usual - and he’s been tilting towards Sam all night.

Their fingers brush when Santiago hands over a Corona, and he holds Sam’s eyes as they clink the bottles together and take that long drink, sour with lime.  Sam tilts his head, smiles slow and wide over the lip of his bottle, and Santiago bites his lip.  

So yeah, maybe.  Santiago seems kinda young, and Sam doesn’t mean too much by it - but he doesn’t have to.  Santiago’s a good looking kid and it’s been almost five months since anyone’s looked Sam’s way, since he’s _wanted_ anyone to look his way.  It’s the first time he’s felt normal in ages and that alone would’ve made it worth coming out to - _wherever_ the fuck he is in Queens.

But it’s still not much of a surprise that when he tips the last of his beer into his throat and heads to the bathroom, Santiago follows him.

The bathroom’s small, just one urinal and one grungy toilet with no door on the stall.  It’s painted red somewhere under all the graffiti, and smells powerfully.  When the bathroom door swings shut behind Santiago the noise cuts down sharp enough that Sam rubs the heel of his hand over his ears, reflexively.

Santiago brushes past him into the open stall, and Sam stumbles, mentally.  Maybe he’d misjudged.  He unzips, starts pissing into the urinal.  He can’t hear much, behind him; he’s deafened from the music, off balance.  Touching his dick feels _great_ , the state he’s in; pissing feels almost better.  He leans back, shuts his eyes, moves his hips a little to the _thump thump thump_ coming in through the wall.

“You want some?” Santiago says, behind him.

Oh.  “Nah, I’m good,” Sam says, shaking off and tucking himself back in.  He turns around, sees about what he was expecting, which is Santiago bent over the back of the toilet seat, shuffling powder into a neat line with his pinky finger.  Sink seems cleaner, Sam thinks, but doesn’t say anything.  He rests one shoulder against the doorframe, watches.  Santiago looks up briefly, flashes a sidelong smile at Sam.  He braces one knee on the seat itself as he leans over to do the line, and the sound of it grating on the bowl is harsh in the relative quiet of the little bathroom.  

Sam wishes - he wishes he was more high.  Maybe he should take Santiago up on the coke.  Maybe he should get something with liquor in it, instead of more beer.  Maybe he should just go home.

Santiago steps forward, into Sam’s space.  He’s shorter than Sam, and with his head tipped up his eyelashes look long and pretty.  “You’re a good dancer,” he says.

Oh, Sam thinks.  Here it is.  All right, Wilson.  “A good partner helps,” he says.  He’s expecting Santiago to laugh - to duck his head and nip at Sam’s neck, maybe, or slide his hands up under the back of Sam’s T-shirt to link mismatched fingers up in the small of Sam’s back - but Santiago gives him a dark, come-hither pout and pushes up on his toes, offering his mouth for Sam to kiss but not quite sealing the deal.

And that’s fine, Sam can work with that.  He bends a little, starts off kinda soft, just testing.  The angle feels a little weird, and so does Santiago’s narrow chest against his own, but it’s cool, he can work with it.  Santiago’s mouth feels good on his, he tastes good, and his hands on Sam’s shoulders are good even if Santiago definitely can’t throw all of Sam’s hundred and eighty odd pounds up against a wall and pin him there.  

Sam’s hands come up, and he buries them in Santiago’s hair because he can, pulling his head back so he can make the kiss harder, sloppier, better.  Santiago surges up into Sam, shoving their hips together, fingers twisted into Sam’s belt loops to hold him close.

“Yeah,” he pants, “gimme that jungle fever.”

Sam laughs, reflexively.  “Gross,” he says, and then tries to cover it up by kissing Santiago again.  His shoulders are pressed up against the stall frame, the edge of it digging in next to his shoulder blade.  He can feel Santiago’s cock digging into his hip, too.  Sam’s getting there himself, even though he feels a little like he’s watching himself from the outside.  He’s thinking too much about this.  Anyone could walk in on them.  He should pump the brakes on this.

Santiago cups him through his jeans, squeezing a little, his fingers long enough that he’s got Sam’s balls too and the feel of it jolts Sam hard enough that he groans out loud, his head thumping back against the stall.  Jesus _fuck_ that feels _good_ , and he thrusts his hips up into Santiago’s hand, chasing the feeling.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Santiago says, and lays messy, wet kisses along Sam’s collarbone.  “Yeah, feel good?  You like that?”

“Yeah,” Sam pants, because he likes getting grabbed and that kick of pleasure had been so intense it was a little scary, and he keeps forgetting a little that he’s rolling, and it’s not quite mattering so much that their friends are still out there or that he doesn’t know anything about Santiago, really.  

Who cares, anyway?  It didn’t have to be something serious.  All that mattered was the drag of Santiago’s cock against his own, the tightness in Sam’s chest, the heat all over him where he’s being touched.

Santiago sits gingerly on the edge of the toilet seat, roughly tugging Sam’s pants down enough to get his cock out.  He licks his lips when he gets a good look at it, flickering his eyes up at Sam.  The look on his face is straight out of a porno, eager and hungry and about as genuine.  But for a second there’s something else - some flicker of nervousness in his eyes, but when Sam touches his cheek, Santiago just shakes his head and lips the head of Sam’s cock into his mouth.

The heat of it socks him right in the gut, but then - goes nowhere.  Santiago’s working him eagerly, and it feels good enough, but it’s only _good enough_ \- like a key that’s not quite fitting the lock.  He’s all over the place, uncoordinated - bobbing up and down Sam’s shaft, then using his hand, but the rhythm’s weird.  After a couple minutes he starts to wonder if maybe he’s not gonna get there - if he’s too high, or if Santiago’s too high - and he closes his eyes, tries not to breathe too deeply, tries to lose himself in the wet suction of Santiago’s mouth.  

He comes, gasping, the taste of the urinal and spilled beer on his tongue, and it’s good enough.

Santiago’s already got his own pants open, offering his cock for Sam to stroke.  He doesn’t seem to expect anything more, just leans back a little and steadies himself on Sam’s shoulders, eyes clenched tight as Sam jerks him off.

Sam’s already feeling a little unsteady, and stupid with his cock still hanging out of his pants, and it’s a relief when Santiago comes quickly.  There’s no toilet paper, so Sam washes his hands off in the little sink.  There’s no mirror, either; just a dim bare bulb lighting up the dank little bathroom.

He dries his hands on his pants, and finally gets to put his cock away.  Santiago’s got his phone out, but he tucks it into his pockets as soon as Sam turns around, offers a sleepy looking grin.  “Thanks,” he says, and kisses Sam softly on the mouth.  “That was cool.”

Sam nods, dazed.  It was something, at least.

“You’re so hot,” Santiago says, and kisses Sam again, just a dry, little peck.  He grins, and for a second the expression looks shy before he tips it sideways.  “I’ve had a crush on you ever since I saw you shirtless at Jacob Riis.”

“Oh,” Sam says, and can’t really find anything else to say.  He doesn’t even remember Santiago being there.  He remembers how hot it was, and how he didn’t talk to many people, and ended up falling asleep with James’ hand in the small of his back: how the rest of the world had dropped away, leaving just the cool, comforting pressure of it against his heated skin.

 _Fuck_.

On the way out of the bathroom, Santiago takes Sam’s hand and laces their fingers together.  Something in Sam’s stomach curdles even further.  Tim and Jim are nowhere to be seen, unsurprisingly.  Sam looks around for them, feeling weird and old and tired of how loud the music is.  He tugs on Santiago’s wrist - accepts Santiago’s damp hand in his own again - and steers them both out of the bar.

It’s been warm the last week or so, but it’s late and Sam shivers a little when they hit the pavement, reflexively.  Outside people are yelling, despite the hour; music is playing; rainbow banners hang loose and bright under the streetlamps.  Santiago turns towards him.  “What now?” he asks, and there’s a lot packed into the question.

Sam looks away.  Looks back, tries to school his expression.  “I gotta go home,” he says, and makes it an apology instead of an invitation.  “I gotta get up early for class.”

Santiago’s shoulders slump a little.  “That’s cool,” he says.  “You wanna share a cab?”

“I’m in uh,” Sam says, but Santiago’s already nodding.

“Yeah, not exactly on the way,” he says, and hesitates, takes a visible leap.  “Lemme give you my number.  We could grab a drink this week.”

Sam takes it, flags down the first cab that comes and puts Santiago in it, gives him a kiss on the cheek goodbye.  There’s a message from Tim on his phone, and he looks at it as he climbs into his own taxi: _make good choices, brother_.  He sighs, and doesn’t bother answering.

He has the cabbie drop him at the far corner of his block, buzzing all over.  He’s not high anymore, he thinks, maybe, or at least he doesn’t really feel the urge to pet the seat of the cab or whatever.  He beelines to the shitty bodega: half stocked with dusty goods, smelling like cats and bleach, but it’s the only one open late at night, and they got that off brand Gatorade that Sam’s learned to live with.

It’s late enough that tomorrow’s Daily News is already out, Stark Tower lit up in a full cover shot.   _The New Leaf!_ the headline reads: S _tark Industries to sell NYC on Clean Arc Power._  He leafs through the issue as he waits for the dude in front of him to stop arguing about the cost of his sandwich, but it’s the Daily News so there’s only a brief, peppy paragraph on the inside: _Launch of arc reactor technology went off last night without a hitch!  Tony Stark, also known as Iron Man, has declared his intention to make Stark Industries a beacon of clean, self sustaining energy.  SI are currently in discussions with Mayor Bloomberg to expand service to the rest of Manhattan and eventually to the outer boroughs._

“Whatchu got,” the dude behind the counter says, and Sam snaps out of his daze.

The apartment’s quiet when Sam lets himself in.  Either Lou’s out, or asleep; either way Sam takes himself and his off brand Gatorade and the oldest granola bars in the world off to his room, leaving all the lights off.  He eats both of them mechanically, washes it down with half his drink.  He doesn’t feel like he’ll be hungover in the morning, but it’s been years since he did ecstasy, much less whatever the fuck’s in molly that they gave it a new name, and he feels better safe than sorry.

With the lights off, the only illumination in the room is through his windows, the steady orange glow of the streetlights.  He’s tired, but when he closes his eyes he feels like he can still hear the pulse of the club, thudding through his bones.  It’s so quiet, in his apartment.  The whole world is asleep except for Sam.

He pulls his phone out, flicks his thumb over the screen idly - scrolling down past almost two months worth of text messages, down to where the contact’s now saved under FUCKBOY.  Last text message, 3/18/14: _u getting these?_

 _Yeah_ , Sam thinks.

_Yeah, I got your texts._ __

_Maybe I should have called you._

_We had something real good, didn’t we?  Before we fucked it up._

He sighs, and hits the little phone icon with his thumb.  FUCKBOY still has a picture saved to the contact, and it comes up as the line connects.  They’d gone up to the Catskills one weekend, to get out of the city.  They’d climbed to the top of a mountain and found a waterfall there.  Just a little waterfall, but James had taken Sam’s phone and held it up above their heads to take a selfie of the two of them standing in front of it.  Sam’s squinting a little, in the photo; the sunlight had been glinting off the spray of water, and also off James’ arm.  James looks like he’s about to speak, but what he’d done instead was to press a kiss into Sam’s cheek, still taking photos.  Sam had liked this one the best though: they’re both smiling.  They look so happy.

The phone rings - once, twice, and then Sam realizes what the fuck he’s doing and hits end so hard he actually drops the phone.  He stares at it in astonished silence, propped up on one elbow, tense like it’s going to bite him.  

The phone starts to ring.  

Sam rubs a hand over his face and thinks about just - letting it go.  Letting it ring.  

He picks up.

“Hey,” he says, and on the other end of the line, James says, “Hey, Sam.”

Sam sits up a little, rubs a hand over his thigh.  At least it’s not possible to hear how hard his heart is beating, through the phone.  He’d never forgotten the exact pitch of James’ voice - how much softer and sweeter he sounds than you’d expect, to look at him - but he’d forgotten how raw it had always made him feel, how it tugged at something in him and set it alight.

There’s a long stretch of silence, and Sam says, “What are you doing?”

“It’s three in the morning,” James says, a little wry.

“Were you sleeping?” Sam asks.

James is quiet, and then says, “Nah.”  He sounds like he’s smiling.

Sam grips the phone tight against his ear.  It’s already starting to feel a little sweaty.  He shifts on the bed, toes his shoes off.  “Do you want me to,” he says, not even quite sure what he’s asking.

“No,” James says, quickly.  “No, it’s okay.  It’s uh,” and he laughs.  The sound of it makes Sam feel warm all over.  “It’s real good to hear your voice.  What’re you doing up so late?  You out or something?”

“Yeah, I was,” Sam says, and toes off his shoes, fumbles one handed with his socks.  God the bed feels good under his shoulders.  It bumps up against the crevices of his body like a soft, warm ocean.  He guesses maybe he still is a little high, on the heels of that thought.  It’s strange, to be making small talk; strangely comfortable, maybe.  It just feels good to talk to him.  “You know there’s gay bars in Queens?”

“Yeah,” James says.  The phone slips a little in Sam’s hand, damp from his sweat, and he transfers it into the crook of his shoulder while he gets situated.  “Yeah, what, you on Roosevelt Ave?”

“You know it?” Sam asks.  “Doesn’t seem like your scene.”

“What, I'm multicultural,” James says, and now he’s definitely laughing.  Sam rubs a hand over his chest, staring up at his ceiling.  “You uh, you have fun?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, but he’s been trying so long that the truth slips out right afterwards.  “Nah, not really.”

“I haven’t gone dancing since my second tour,” James says.  He sounds a little sleepy, or maybe just stoned.  “S’little much for me.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam says.  “I just - I don’t get it anymore.  I’m getting a lot better at _life_ but some of the shit civvies do for fun, I don’t know.”

“I hear you,” James says.  “But what do I know about _fun_ , I had a whale of a time tonight playing euchre with my elderly female relatives.”

And that's - gratifying.  Even if - yeah, when he’d thought about it, the chances of someone with James’ problems being out on the town fucking strangers or, like - fucking Steve in drug fueled orgies - were pretty slim.  But it feels good, in a way that makes him feel vaguely ashamed of himself, and he can’t say he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he replies, “Well it’s definitely not molly and a hook up with some rando in a dirty bathroom.  I just had the worst blowjob of my entire life.”

There’s a long, stricken pause on the other end.  Sam can hear James breathing, ragged.  His fingers ache, where he’s gripping his phone tight.  He feels immediately, intensely ashamed.  “I’m sor -” he starts to say, but James interrupts him.

“I dunno there are bad blowjobs,” he says.  “Maybe you’re just spoiled.”

“Nah, it was pretty bad,” Sam says, and then confesses, “He said I gave him jungle fever.”

“Gross,” James says.  “He a white guy?”

“No,” Sam says, and manages to laugh, squeezing it past the lump in his throat.  “I don’t know what his deal was.”

“Weird,” James says.  “You got bad taste in men, Sam.”

“Not usually,” Sam says, soft.  He rolls over onto his side.  He wonders where James is; if he’d sacked out on the couch or if he’s in his room.  There’s no background noise coming through the phone, just James and the soft, faint sound of his breath.

“So you uh,” James says, hesitant.  And Sam knows what he’s gonna ask, but it hurts anyway to hear that little shake in James’ voice.  “You dating this guy or what?”

“No,” Sam says.  He wants to be chill about it, to make it casual instead of reassurance.  “No, he’s just - some guy.”

In Sam’s mind, the moment of silence is James’ jaw clenching.  His eyes rolling up to the ceiling as he takes that steadying breath Sam can hear crackle on the other end of the line.  “Good,” James says, finally.  “I got high standards for the kinda blowjobs you get.”

“I got spoiled,” Sam says, and his stomach clenches when James chuckles.  Up close in his ear, it feels like the kind of sounds he used to make in the middle of the night, when they’d wake each other up to fuck.

“What’d you call for, Sam?” James asks.  There’s a faint sound on the line: the creak of James’ bed, Sam thinks.  He’d had a cheap IKEA frame when they’d first gotten together, and managed to break it together within a month.  

“To tell you how much I don’t miss you,” Sam says, and hears James’ breath catch, the soft whirring as his arm wakes up and starts its calibration cycle.

“Yeah well,” James says.  “You’re out gettin shitty blowjobs, I don’t know why you would.”

Sam laughs.  He scratches the fingers of his free hand over the other pillow, traces a little circle on it.  He feels quieter; his body heavy and warm.  “Hey, you remember -” he says, and then bites back on the rest of it.

“What great blowjobs we used to give each other?” James asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says.  “Yeah, actually.”  He palms a hand over his stomach, thoughtlessly; reaches down to scratch his balls, rubs over his thigh and his cock on the way back up.  He looks over at the door, checks to make sure it’s closed.   _Make good choices_ , Sam thinks, and then locks that thought away tight.  “I was thinking of,” he says. “Hey, you remember that dumb house party we went to in Williamsburg?  The one where Steve passed out in a closet like an hour after we got there?”

He’s straining to listen, and is rewarded with a warm laugh, close and intimate.  “I blew you on the fire escape,” James says.  

“Sixth floor,” Sam said.  “It was dark out.”

“Not that dark,” James says, the same unrepentant tone he’d had when he coaxed Sam around to face the brick wall of the building, putting one of Sam’s hands and then the other flat up against it, to cushion Sam’s head.  There’d been people out smoking, two stories down.  Anyone could’ve looked up, seen James fucking him in the dark, tight and close, both of them giggling as they tried not to give themselves away.  He’d come from that too, hard enough that he’d nearly fallen down the wobbly iron steps afterwards.  James had fucked him again the next morning, both of them woozy and blinded by hangovers, tucked under the covers until it had gotten so frantic Sam thought they’d break the bed again.

He’s getting hot, thinking about it.  James laughs, even though Sam hasn’t said anything else, and he sounds hot too.  “We had good times,” James says.  “You can be a huge dick, but we had some good times.”

“I’m perfect,” Sam says.  “I’m Captain America with a huge dick,” and James actually _growls_ into the phone, and then they’re both laughing.  If they’d been in the same room James would’ve rolled over and pinned Sam down to cover him with biting, stinging kisses.  

Jesus Christ, he’s turned on.  Is he still rolling?  Is that what this is?  He feels more awake than he has in months.  

On the other end of the line, James whimpers.  It’s just the faintest little keen, like he’s let it out between clenched teeth.  And Sam knows that sound.  He spent almost a year trying to wring that sound out of James, and if he was hot _before_ -

“ _Goddamnit_ ,” James whispers, probably to himself.

“You got your cock out?” Sam asks, low.  “What’re you doing with it?”

A ragged noise, through the speaker.  “Just holding it,” James says.  

“Give it a little squeeze for me,” Sam says, and James’ breathing hitches, just the softest little _ahh_ sound.  He closes his eyes, pictures it: James sitting up against the headboard, looking down at himself.  God, he had a nice cock - big and thick, darker than Sam would’ve expected from a white guy.  On Sam’s end of the phone, a car rolls by his window, giving Sam a good view of himself: his fist down his pants, cupping himself through his shorts.  

There’s a faint thump - James’ skull knocking against the headboard, Sam guesses, and then he groans faintly.  He must be doing more than just holding himself now.

“This is,” James says, strained.  “We shouldn’t be doing this.  You broke up with me.”

Sam’s hand stills.  “What?  You broke up with _me_ ,” he says, and pulls his hand out of his pants.  He goes to roll onto his stomach, regrets it immediately and flops over onto his back.  He glares at his hard on, at the useless, frustrating tent it’s making in his pants.  

“I called you,” James hisses.  “I showed up at your damn trial.”

“You creeped around at my trial,” Sam corrects.  “And I called you first.”

Tense silence, and then James makes a soft noise, considering.  “You lied to me,” he says, so quiet Sam can barely hear him.

Sam swallows, his whole body tensing up.  “Yeah,” he says, just as quiet.  “Yeah, I did.”

James says nothing, waiting.  Sam swallows again.  He’s got tears in his eyes.  It’s confusing; his whole body is confusing, a mess of warring sensation.  His cock hasn’t even clued into the sudden turn of conversation yet, still aching.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, when he can.  He sits up, pulls his shirt over the back of his head, lays back barechested on his sheets.  “I didn’t mean to.”

James makes a derisive sound, which yeah, Sam probably deserves.  “I meant to tell you,” he says.  “Just - the longer I left it, the harder it was.  When I met you, I didn’t think I’d end up - I mean, you didn’t seem like you were looking for anything serious.”

“I told you _my_ story,” James says.

“You kinda had to,” Sam says.  “Can’t hide a prosthetic arm like you can a tragic backstory, right?  I made myself sick over it, over - you know, there were weeks at a time I didn’t sleep?  Not more than an hour a night.  Every time I closed my eyes I’d see this big green flash.  He woulda been - there was nothing left for me to go back for.  But _what if_.  Sometimes guys come back.   _You_ came back.”

“I didn’t notice,” James says, quiet, and Sam’s confused for a second until he can backtrack a little.

“It’s alright,” he says, sighing, even though maybe it’s not.  But either way, “I didn’t want you to.”  He scrubs a hand over his face, pushes his phone into his shoulder so he can use both hands to wiggle off his jeans.  “Look, you’re gonna be the fifth person I’ve told since coming home, not counting my group at the VA.  I thought I could manage it on my own.”

James exhales.  He’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Sam starts to drift a little.  “Rookie move,” he says, eventually.  “I can dig it, though.”

“I wanted -” Sam says, and shakes his head.

“Yeah,” James says, like he’d finished the sentence.  “There’s a lot of stuff I didn’t tell you either.  I gotta lot of health problems, even on top of the - the psych part, the flashbacks and shit.  I guess maybe you know some of it by now.  I had a heart attack once.  I died in surgery twice.  I don’t know what kinda life span I got.”

If Sam closes his eyes it almost feels like they’re in the same room, staring up into hushed darkness.  “Guess no one knows that,” he says.

James snorts.  “Yeah, alright,” he says, and the silence between them is contemplative.  Comfortable.  “So,” he says, after a while.  “You said you were gonna tell me.”

Sam finds himself smiling, his eyes closed.  “My wingman,” he breathes.  “His name was Riley.  It was - just your standard rescue op.  This night mission thing - some dumb kids, their first time over.  Got themselves stuck outside of their zone after nightfall, ran into some trouble.  I was just a little ahead of him, so all I heard was this -”

It had been this weird, sharp sound.  Like someone ripping a book in half.   _Cra-koww_.  He’d hadn’t even felt the heat before he’d been knocked stupid by the force of it.  He’d spun out, and for dizzying seconds couldn’t right himself, and through his night vision goggles the whole world had been lit up bottle green.  

An RPG makes a hell of an explosion.  He’d seen - _pieces_ , falling.  Not much, though.  Mostly just that big green ball in the sky.  There would have been nothing to go back for.  There was nothing Sam could’ve done.

“He was my brother,” Sam says, quiet.  “We came up in selection together.  One of the reasons we got picked for EXO-7 was how tight we were; they were looking for dudes who could work in sync.  He was the first person I ever told I was bi.  He woulda liked you; you both got the same dumb sense of humor.  I miss him a lot.  Every single day, I miss him.”

It’s the simple, dumb truth, and it hits Sam like a wave.  He breathes, lets it wash over him.  God, Riley would’ve laughed to see all the shit Sam’s done since coming home, the life he has now.  When they were on leave they used to call each other most every night, send each other dumb photos, and each time coming back was like coming home to family.  

“Thanks,” James says.  “Thanks for telling me.”

“I shoulda told you before,” Sam says, but James shakes his head; Sam can hear the phone rustling against the pillow as he does it.

“Can’t beat yourself up about it now,” he says.  “Sam, I’m - I was real happy to hear you were doing therapy and all that.  I know it _fucking sucks_ sometimes, but it’s - it’s important.  Specially for someone like you.  If you - yeah, if you can try and take care of yourself half as much as you used to take care of me, you’ll get there.  Trust me."

“I’m getting better,” Sam says, thin.

James exhales, a gusty crackle into the phone.  “We don’t get better,” he says.  “There’s no _better_.  You’re never gonna go back to the guy you were before Riley died.  You just become a person that all that shit happened to.  You make it work.”

Sam opens his eyes.  “It’s weird,” he says, “but I’m cool with that.”

“Yeah, it’s not so bad,” James says.  “I mean, we earned it.”

“Could do without the nightmares,” Sam says.

“Could do without the robot arm,” James says.  “But hey, at least we don’t gotta drag our ass to Queens to have a good time.”

“You’re full of shit, you were in Queens too,” Sam says, laughing at him.  “With your elderly female relatives.”

“Oh,” James says, startled, like he’d forgotten about that.  “Well, fuck you.”

Sam roots around until he’s under the covers.  He’s still half hard and he presses a hand against his junk, comfortingly.  With his knees up and the blanket spread across them, he blocks out most of the room, and he jiggles his legs a little just for the feel of it.  “So you got any other dark secrets?” he asks.  “I heard all about Steve’s.”

“Mmm,” James says.  “Steve.  Yeah, he said.”

Sam sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, worries at it a little.  “Look, I believe you it wasn’t physical,” he says, finally.  “But it was still - you did wrong by me.”

“Yeah,” Jams says, and sighs.  “Look, I didn’t do that on purpose.  He’s - a hard habit to break.  I didn’t know it was like that for you.”

“Would you have stopped, if I said anything?” Sam asks, and James is quiet for a long time, thinking it over.

“Don’t know,” he admits.  It stings, to hear it.  “I wanna say yes, but.  I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter now, I guess,” Sam says.

“Yeah it does,” James says.  “I told you I was gonna do better and I didn’t.  I’m sorry.”

Sam tips his chin up to the ceiling, and thinks that over.  He feels strangely blank, and warm.  He doesn’t know what to say to that at all.  It doesn’t matter, in any real way; it’s not like he can make James promise to do better, in some future they’re not gonna have.  But it - it helps.  “So no dark secrets,” he says, and James huffs.  

“Just that I jerk off, like, four times a day,” he says, wry.

“That’s not a secret,” Sam objects, and then, feeling daring, tells him, “I’d never fooled around with a guy before you.”

“Huh,” James says.  “Well, you suck dick a lot better than that jungle fever asshole, I never had any complaints.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, dry.  “That’s a ringing endorsement, asshole.”

“Aw,” James says.  “What I meant was, you suck a champion dick.  You’re a natural talent.  You made me come so hard I saw little birdies flying around my head.”

“Go on, keep talking,” Sam says, and James laughs.  

“I really didn’t know you’d never been with a guy,” he says, and he sounds surprised by it.  “You got no fear in you anywhere, do you, Sam?”

“Wouldn't've been too good at flying around with a rocket strapped eight inches from my asshole if I did,” Sam says, wryly.

“That’s fuckin hot,” James says, and they’re both laughing again, and fuck Sam could almost start crying again: it feels like coming home.

“Hey,” Sam says, instead, “hey, you remember your birthday?”

“Do I remem -” James says, scornfully, and then, “ - _oh_.”

“You jerk off four times a day,” Sam says.  “How often you use it?”

James actually giggles.  “Yeah?  You really asking me that?”

And there’s a few things Sam could say here:   _Don’t make it weird.  Yeah, unless your dick falls off after serious talks.  It doesn’t have to be complicated._  “If you want to,” is what comes out, “I do too.”

“If I want to,” James grumbles.  Sam can hear him shifting around on his bed.  “You don’t even wanna know how many times I’ve gotten off thinkin about the first time you used that thing on me.  It was so dumb - even when I was pissed at you, I was jerking off over you.”

“You still pissed at me?” he can’t help but ask, and James goes quiet, considering.

“No,” he says.  “But I’m scared of you.”

Sam gets quiet too.  “Yeah, I feel you.”  He reaches under the blanket, smoothes a hand over his belly.  Touches himself through his shorts, lightly.  “You wanna stop?”

James groans.  “Aw, knock it off,” he says.  “You’re gonna give me whiplash.  And blue balls, you son of a bitch.”

“All right,” Sam says.  “Go get the big guy.  I wanna hear it hum through the phone.”

“Gimme a minute,” James says, breathless.  “I gotta put my headphones in, I need both hands for this.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, and stares blindly up at the ceiling, his hand on his cock, rubbing gentle over the head, just enough to let that pressure build.  Jesus, what are they doing?  He eases his shorts off, takes himself in hand for real.  Lets go to dive awkwardly for his own headphones, sitting on the bedside table, and plugs them in.  It’s taking James a long time to come back.  Is he having second thoughts?    

“Sam,” James says, and the sound of his own name in that soft voice hits Sam hard, and his hips jerk up into his fist.  He grunts, surprised by it, and there’s an echoing noise on the other end of the phone.  “Ahh, fuck, _Sam_.”

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks, jerking himself in long, slow strokes.  

“Fingering myself,” James pants.  “I got the big guy turned on though, I’ve got it - _uhn_ \- I’ve got it up against my dick.”

Sam closes his eyes, pushes his head back into his pillow, pushes his whole body against the bed.  “Bet that feels good,” he says, even though he _knows_ it feels good, remembers how good it felt when they’d held it between them, rubbing against both their cocks as they kissed, deep and furious.  

 _Nghhh_ is James’ reply.  “Nah, come on,” Sam murmurs, encouraging.  He’s braced now, knees still up and apart, spread wide so he can thrust up into his hand.  “Tell me what’s going on, I wanna hear it.  You got it in you yet?”

“No,” James says, breathless, “it’s _big_.  S’just been me and my fingers for - ah, ahhh - a-ages, Sam, _Sam_ , alright, I’m gonna put it in.”

They’d picked it out together, at the cute little sex toy shop around the corner from Tim’s shop.  It’s _big_ , and pink, and helping James ease it inside himself for the first time had been a profound experience.  He’d looked so _shocked_ , like he was listening hard to something inside himself, and Sam had kept one hand on it the whole time, vibration running up his wrist, watching James flush and shake and shudder and then _scream_ , gritted through his teeth, his whole body jackknifing as he came into Sam’s other hand.

“Feels good,” James whispers, into Sam’s ear.  “Wish you were here to see it.”

“You wish I was there to fuck you with it,” Sam says back, testing, and James groans.

“Yeah,” he says, breathing hard.  “Yeah, you got me.  I wish, _fuck_ , I wish I had your mouth on me while you’re, y - _nnnn_ -”

“You want me to be sucking you off,” Sam says, low, helpful, “while I fuck you deep with the toy.”

James laughs, low, and the sound of it goes right to Sam’s balls.  He’s slick now, and his hand makes wet noises in the still room as he works himself, in time to James’ jagged breaths.  He probably does have it deep by now, the ridged base pressed up hard right behind his balls, hitting his prostate from outside and in.  He’s probably holding it in with his prosthetic hand, jerking off with the other hand.  “How about,” Sam says, and he’s thrusting hard into his hand as he pictures it, “how about I made you come, and then I pulled the toy out and fucked you myself, while you’re all loose and open for it?”

“No,” James gasps, and Sam’s hand stills for a second, “no, I wanna come with you, I want you in me, I wanna come when you’re fucking me, _Sam_ -”

And that hits Sam right where he wants it, right where he lives.  He comes with a deep, broken sound, one hand tight around his cock, the other flung out, fingers digging into the empty pillow.  In his ears, so close he can practically feel the heat of James’ skin, James sobs - nothing held back.

He can feel his heartbeat in the tips of his toes.  His legs are limp and heavy, twitching with the aftershocks.  Holy shit.  He could sleep for a year.  

He rolls his head to the side, slowly.  Sees the expanse of the bed beside him: the rucked up sheets, now a little smelly and damp.  The pillow next to him, with only his own short hairs stuck in between the fibers.  “Mmmm,” James says, low and satisfied, and Sam shivers full body.

“Yeah,” he says, and stretches - fuck, that feels amazing - for the box of tissues on his bedside table, to wipe himself off.  Shit, he came all over himself.  He’s got jizz on his _chin_ , how the fuck did that even happen.  “Jesus, that was -”

“Yeah,” James says, hardly more than a sigh, and then, “Woulda been even better if you really were here.”

Sam breathes.  “Can I see you?” he asks.  It’s out of his mouth before he can really think about it, about what that would mean.

James is quiet for a long time.  Sam’s heart picks up, but he waits, he doesn’t say anything else.  He rolls over onto his side, curls his knees up like he’s tucking himself in behind James’ warm body, settling in for sleep.

“I don’t know,” James says, very softly.  “You really fucked me up, Sam.  It scares the hell out of me to think of doing all that again.”

“Me too,” Sam admits.  “But this thing between you and me - letting it go, that scares the hell out of me too.”

James sighs.  Over the phone, Sam can hear movement, and soft little sounds as, he can only guess, James starts to cleans up.   _Thump thump_ \- and then the buzz of the bathroom light.  

“It doesn’t have to be -” Sam says, and James cuts him off.

“I don’t want something casual,” he says, hard.  “Not with you.  If that’s what you’re looking for you can just hang up now.  I can’t - I can’t fuck around like that with you.”

Something light and lovely sparks in Sam’s heart, and he takes a shaky breath.  “Me neither,” he says.  “There’s - a lot we should talk about.”  

“Mmm,” James says, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, grinning helplessly, even before James says anything else.  “What about the fourth?  Is that too far off?  Just, I got a bunch of doctor’s appointments the next few days, and -”

“It’s good,” Sam says, quickly.  “It’s good, it’s all good.  The fourth.  Okay.”  He does a quick calculation in his head.  “I get out of class at four, we could meet near your work.  Sound okay?”

He holds his breath, and waits for judgement.

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

He goes for a run the next morning.  He’s not hungover, but his body feels tender all over.  The ground under his feet feels like it’s pushing him along, shoving him towards something.  It’s bright and clear out, and there’s a warm breeze that drifts over the back of his neck.  The trees are starting to bloom.

He hits the coffee shop on Vanderbilt, gets his usual order.  The apartment’s quiet when he lets himself back in, but it’s still early.  He sets the coffee and pastries on the table, takes a quick shower.  

He sits with his phone in his hands for a minute, trying not to smile like an idiot at it.  He unlocks it, pulls up his text messages, types out something short and sweet.  Taps over to Facebook.  

There’s a post from Steve from yesterday up at the top of his feed, a picture of a white dude in a leather jacket sitting outside at that cafe near Steve’s work.   _Do u see this fukn guy????!!_ Steve says.   _I think theyre filming another Cap movie hes a dread ringer!!!!!  Cant see movie trucks newhere but mb he got lost haha.  lets start a meme: bummed Cap_

There’s a picture of Tim and Jim from last night, a selfie of them bathed in purple light, looking happy and a little drunk.  Sam’s nowhere to be seen; it must’ve been taken when he and Santiago were - occupied elsewhere.

There’s a post from his mom, or rather, an out of focus photo of his dad, standing proudly in front of a brand new grill, a big red ribbon on top.   _Looks great,_ Sam writes.   _Happy birthday dad, love you guys_.

Lou’s door opens, and Sam locks his phone, sets it aside.  She stumbles out to sit across the table from him, pulling the satin cap over her eyes like she could delay consciousness that way.  

“I had phone sex with James last night,” he tells her, and she makes a wretched, sad noise.

“Why you gotta spring dick stuff on me first thing in the morning,” she mumbles, into her hands.  “I ain’t even awake yet.”

He slides a coffee over to her, and then the bag of pastries.  Takes a sip of his own, leaning back in his chair, ankle crossed over his knee.  On the table, Sam’s phone chimes. _good morning :)_

 

-

 

The morning of May 4th, Sam wakes up early.  He lies in bed for a while, feeling warm and quiet and excited.  He’s out the door by 6:15, and does the full loop of Prospect Park.  

He takes the train into the city at 10, gets coffee and an egg and cheese on a roll at the deli on 63rd and Lex.  He’s texts James while he’s waiting on line, his eye tracing over the scratched counter and the stack of Posts off to one side.  There’s a blurry, far off picture of a guy with horns, mid-punch with another guy in a blue suit.   _Captain Puerto Rico Fights Horny Weirdo in Germany_ , says the headline.

 _Where do you want to meet up?_ Sam asks.

He’s paid and walking up towards 68th by the time his pocket buzzes.   _highline???_ James says.   _is that too date spot.  idc lets walk teh highline.  i cn smoke on it again.  fuck it._

 _Fuck it :),_ Sam writes back.   _What time?_

 _come get me @work at 5_ , James says.   _well walk 2 the 33rd entrnc._

 _Roger_ , Sam says, and tucks his phone away.  He sobers up a bit while he’s in class, but as the hours roll on he can feel the anticipation building in him like a thing entirely separate.  Five months since he’s seen James.  Feels like five years.  Shoulda got a haircut, he thinks; fuck it, James can’t tell the difference anyway.  He’s got on a nice shirt, he smells good, he trimmed up his goatee this morning; he looks good.  

After class he thinks about going to the library, getting some studying done, but he can’t focus.  It’s a little after 4, and he turns his feet towards Lexington, and then towards 67th.  James’ studio is on 38th St and 6th Ave - he could walk down to 63rd and catch an F over to Bryant Park, do some homework out on the lawn until James is off work.  It’s sunny out, and there’s a soft breeze rustling through the trees lining the avenue, and the people he passes as he walks have that goofy, just-released-from-winter look about them.  Yeah, it’d be a good day to sit out on some grass in the sunshine.  A good day to go on a date, and the thought of it makes him feel warm all over.  He can feel himself smiling, up at the clear blue sky.

So he sees it, when a beam of blue light shoots up from midtown.

There’s a strange sound just before it happens - an electric sound, a _ripping_ sound, and all the trees shudder like a wicked wind has passed through them.  Everyone stops what they’re doing and looks up, turning like one towards the beam.  As Sam watches, the sky bulges and a hole opens up in the middle of it, like someone’s torn right through to nighttime.

“What the hell is that?” someone says, but everyone else is silent - watching, not getting it.  There’s a squeal of brakes as someone rear ends a yellow cab, but as the drivers get out to scream at each other they fall silent too, staring up at the little figures that are coming out of the hole in the sky, and at Iron Man zooming up from between the tangle of skyscrapers to engage them.

“Is this some kinda stunt?” someone else says, uncertainly, and then whatever Iron Man’s shooting at starts to explode and rain down onto Stark Tower and the city below.  Some of the bogies make it through the gauntlet of missiles and disappear below the building line, out of sight.

They can’t hear anything, but they see the smoke, and puffs of dust spewing into the sky, and that’s when people start screaming and Sam starts to run.

Going full out, Sam runs a five minute mile.  Dodging stopped cars and people staring up at the sky and cops running zig zagged in the same direction, he makes the 24 blocks to 42nd Street in just under seven.

He sees, in flashes above him as he runs - aliens, or whatever, _something_ \- dip in and out between the streets crossing Lexington Avenue, chasing or being chased by Iron Man.  He doesn’t think.  His feet hit the pavement in steady beats, controlled and purposeful.  He can’t see what’s happening on the other side of Stark Tower, what’s causing the explosions that get louder and louder as the street numbers count down.  His book bag slaps hard against his hip and he ditches it at the corner of 53rd without a thought to the hundreds of dollars worth of textbooks inside.  

He almost goes sprawling as there’s a rush on the northwest corner of 50th, a bottleneck where a Mr Frostee has mounted the pavement, and people are panicking, running away.  Sam hooks right into the street itself, muscles burning, heart pumping, the whole world falling away.     

He watches, neck craned up, one eye on the road ahead of him, as some kind of fighter aircraft - can’t see what it is, maybe an F-35 but the shape’s all wrong - starts shooting at something high up on Stark Tower, and is blasted out of the sky by whatever’s up there, going down in a cloud of fire and smoke somewhere on Park, south of Grand Central.

He’s just passing the Chrysler Building when something big comes out of the hole in the sky.  

It’s so big it blots out the sun.  It darkens the canyon of Lexington Ave and swims southward through the air, light rushing back down towards the ground as it passes, refracting sunbeams off windows like a kaleidoscope.  All at once everything feels very far away, but Sam keeps running; he doesn’t let himself slow, not even a little.  He doesn’t know what he’s running towards, but he knows what he’ll find when he gets there: a war zone, and people who need help.

As he hits Lex and 42nd the world shifts abruptly from the normal hustle and bustle that diffuses outwards from Grand Central Terminal, into utter chaos.  

There are - aliens, maybe, big silver _monsters_ shooting indiscriminately into the crowds of people running screaming away from the epicenter of the invasion, away from Grand Central and the battle he can vaguely see is happening on top of the footbridge leading up to it from Park Avenue: aliens going down as they’re hit by some kind of projectiles, a figure in blue popping up into view and then vanishing.

There are yellow cabs overturned and on fire in the middle of the street.  Piles of rubble that used to be the statues on top of Grand Central.  The whining, roaring sound of the whale as it smashes indiscriminately down Park.  He flinches as something whips overhead: two of the flyers that came out of the portal pass right over his head and strafe 42nd Street with blue lasers.  The people fleeing, hindered by suitcases and sensible office clothes, fall down as one - or vanish behind billowing black smoke as the missiles blow cabs and cars straight up into the air, where they pinwheel before crashing down.

He has a moment of sheer, whiteout horror and rage: this is his _city_ , this is _New York_.  

His body is burning, heart pumping overdrive from the run and the adrenaline, lungs heaving, muscles full of acid, choking on the thick smoke.  That’s okay.  The body will tell you you’re weak.  But you’re strong.

The first hostile is fast, but Sam is faster.  It lunges at him - he’d gotten too close for it to use the big glowing weapon attached to its arm - and he catches it by the arm, pulling it forward through its own momentum into an uncontrolled spin before yanking abruptly up.  It slams onto the ground, and he follows with a knee to its chest, burying his switchblade in the thing’s exposed throat.

He has seconds before the next alien’s on him, and he’s pushing his luck already standing out in the street like an asshole, trying to rip the cannon off the dead one’s arm.  One moment he thinks _that’s it, you fucked up_ and then it comes loose and he shoves his own arm into it, praying that this shit’s at least a little more intuitive than some of the weapons he’s certified on -

It is, and half the alien disappears in a flash of blue light, vaporized from knees to shoulders, and the rest of it blown off halfway to Park Ave.  And that’s great, but the cannon’s heavy as hell and hell to aim, so he drops it, retrieves the knife he’d left in the first alien and a SIG Sauer P226 that its blue uniformed owner wouldn’t be using anymore.  When he checks it, there’s still twelve rounds. The poor bastard hadn’t even gotten off a shot.

The light ripples; the whale’s overhead again, chasing Iron Man back down the length of Park Ave.  He follows it with this eyes - up above there are aliens all over the buildings, swarming them like insects.  More of them zooming around in the air, like every sci-fi fantasy Sam’s ever had, like the sci-fi fantasy he _lived_ , and he allows himself one brief, searing moment to miss his wings harder than he’s ever missed anything in his life, and then he locks that feeling away.  Focuses on the problem at hand, which is -

One of the flyers explodes in a gout of blue fire, and hits the street on the close side of the pedestrian bridge, sending more smoke and fire up into the air.  Sam had put a hand up to shield his eyes, instinctively; blinking away irritated tears, he scans the street to see where the shot came from.

And there - of course, of fucking course - pinned under the tattered, smoking red awnings of the Terminal, crouched between an overturned taxi and the wall, is James Barnes.  He’s wearing shorts, flip flops, and a tank top with a lurid looking cartoon character printed on it, and taking cool, careful aim at the flyers overhead, bringing down one hostile after another with pulses from one of the long, staff-like weapons Sam saw them carrying.  He’s braced against the wall - if there’s a kick to the alien weapon, Sam can’t see it shudder through him - face smooth and unruffled and totally fucking oblivious to the three aliens running towards his cover.

And Sam’s not a sniper, and the SIG’s hardly an automatic, so he does the best he can: he screams, “ _James_!” as loud as he can just in case James can hear it, and then takes off running.  He goes up the trunk of a miraculously upright car, shoving off into space with both feet.  He hits the lead hostile dead on, one boot to the thing’s knee and his elbow into its face.  It goes down, and Sam goes with it: landing hard on the pavement, straddling the thing’s shoulders, and uses the seconds before it recovers to deliver a shot to the face to each of its buddies.  He saves a bullet on the one he’s got pinned, and cuts its throat instead.  Ten rounds left.

“Holy fuck,” he hears James say, and then he’s getting dragged off the alien and back behind cover.  “Holy fuck.”  James’ hands are on Sam’s face, his neck, patting him down or - no, he’s being _groped_ , that crazy-eyed look James is giving him is _arousal_ , he’s _turned on_ -

They both jerk away, reorienting, scanning all quadrants for further attack.  Sam’s face feels like it’s on fire, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.  “What the fuck are you wearing?” Sam says, over his shoulder.  

“Didn’t have time to change,” James says, and swings the staff up towards the pedestrian bridge, picks off an alien that had been clambering up the side of it.  “You look hot.”

“I know,” Sam says, and James says, “like, _really_ hot.”

“What’s the situation?” Sam asks, because neither of them have time for that right now, but he can’t help himself from grabbing hard at the back of James’ neck, the heel of his palm digging into the hot-cold line between skin and metal.

James sucks in a breath, but blessedly doesn’t say anything about that.  “Three combatants up on the bridge,” he says instead.  “ID unknown.  They’re taking down a lot of - _whoa_!”

There’s a crack, louder than the fires and the shooting up above their heads, and _lightning_ arcs down from the sky and hits the bridge.  If that wasn’t enough, a man follows it - with long, flowing blond hair and an honest to god cape.  Sam and James look at each other, jaws unhinged.  “I don’t fuckin’ know,” James says, helpless.  “I don’t know what the fuck this is.”

“Iron Man’s been flying circles up there,” Sam says.  “Whoever these people are, they’re trying to keep this contained.”

James nods, and points down the avenue.  “The cops’ve set up a perimeter down on 39th, but I’m guessing they’re gonna be focused on evacuation.  There’s an NYPD surveillance tower that usually sits on 43rd and Madison.  They’re outfitted with some heavy weaponry, anti-terrorism shit -”

“Yeah,” Sam says, already getting the picture.  There’s a calm settling over him, from having a plan or taking orders or the tone in James’ voice when he’s giving them.  Whatever the hell else is happening, this part he knows.

“I’m gonna see what I can find,” James says, and they share a grin.  “Get up high, pick off active hostiles, keep the way clear for evac.  I’ll give you cover where I can, but we gotta get to the civvies the cops can’t reach.”  

“Which building does Steve work in?” Sam asks, and James’ whole body tightens.

“He’s not stupid,” he says, terse.  “He’s not gonna come out in this, he’ll stay put until it’s over or his building gets evacuated.  He’ll be fine.”

That’s when they hear it - the roar of the thing that blotted out the sun.  Trees and cars being shredded as it careens its way up Park, belly scraping against the avenue.  There are no windows behind them anymore to shatter, but both of them grab at their ears, trying to block it out, and then James is shoving Sam up to run, run -

He doesn’t look back.  Suddenly the street is full of people again, as anyone who was hiding under the bridge or in Pershing Square starts streaming out into the open, trying to get out of the thing’s way.  The street gets dark and the whale bellows and then there’s this wave of sound that sends them stumbling as they careen towards relative safety, like some kind of sonic boom.  At that, Sam does look - and sees the whale’s armor cracking and falling off in pieces as it tips up, up, _up_ into the air - and the little _pfft_ of sound, low enough that Sam’s probably just imagining it as he watches Iron Man fire a rocket into the thing.  “Incoming!” he yells, and they dive -

He feels the heat on his back.  The force of the explosion shoves them to the concrete.  James rolls over him immediately - covering Sam’s head with his prosthetic arm, whirs and clicks and the smell of hot asphalt in his nose.  Something hits the ground behind them with a horrific impact.  It’s the whale’s head, its stinking mouth open and gaping, the eye turned towards them smashed in and leaking viscous fluid all over the street.  They scramble to their feet.

Sam points at it with the SIG.  “Don’t step in that,” he says.

“I was _teaching_ ,” James says, like there’s ever an excuse to wear flip flops in Manhattan.  

Up on the buildings, all around them, the aliens start screaming, and the sky grows dark.  “There’s more of the big ones coming,” Sam says, looking up.

“Can’t do much about them,” James says, following his gaze.  “Let’s see what we can do to minimize casualties down here.  You came - which way you come in?  Lex?  All right, head back that way, Bellevue’s the closest ER and if they’re scrambling people here they’ll be coming from the southeast.  Let ‘em know the sitrep, and what -”

There’s a large, squealing smash up high as something huge - fuck, it’s that green monster that wrecked Harlem last year! - collides midair with the second of the whales that’s made its way out of the portal.  The impact sends them both into a big silver building, digging great gouges out of the middle of it.  Next to Sam, James goes rigid and lets out an incoherent shout.  Sam goes cold all over; he knows, with sickening certainty, exactly who works there.  

James gets three steps before Sam can grab him, and he’s yanked forward with James’ momentum.  

“ _Let go_ ,” James snarls, but Sam holds firm, reeling James back in close.  They’re vulnerable out in the street, they don’t have time for this shit.

“Find the surveillance tower,” he says, firm, and holds James’ eyes.  “I’ll go get him.  This is my _job_ , James.  Go do yours.”

He’d grabbed James’ prosthetic arm and he can feel it rippling under his hand.  James is panting, open mouthed, and it’s a long breathless moment for Sam too as he watches James visibly get himself under control.  “Okay,” he says, “okay, but you -”

“No better hands,” Sam promises, and James shakes his head, jerkily, squeezes his eyes tight for a brief second.

“Steve works on the 7th floor,” he says.  “Entrance is on 41st, there’s an emergency staircase to the left of the elevators.  His office -” he swallows, hard, “- faces Park.”

“I got it,” Sam says.  “I got him.  Go.”

He gives James a little shove, but James doesn’t go anywhere, steady on his feet like Sam’s shoving a brick wall.  He’s staring fixedly at Sam like the world isn’t ending all around them.  It’s the same crazy look he was giving Sam when they were crouched behind the taxi, so when James steps forward Sam’s ready for him.  They bite at each other’s mouths, panting harshly, James’ thumbs pressing hard in on either side of Sam’s jaw.

“I love you,” James breathes, and it’s so fucking stupid but Sam actually laughs, the sound of it startled out of him.  “ _I love you._  You be fuckin careful, you hear me?  I can’t -”

“I love you too,” Sam says, and kisses James again, softer this time, open mouthed and humid, a promise for everything else they don’t have time to say right now.  He pushes James again, and this time James lets him do it.

“We still gotta talk about this, don’t think you’re getting out of it,” James says, and takes a step backwards, angled towards Madison.  Sam’s eyes go up the street automatically; still clear, but they’re coming, the next wave is pouring from the sky now.

“Be safe,” Sam says, and takes his own step.  He sees James’ eyes flicker up over his shoulder: watching his back.  “I’ll see you when I see you.”

“I’ll see you first,” James says, and takes off running, so Sam does the same.

He sticks close to the side of the buildings as he runs, moving from cover to cover.  The street’s emptying out; small blessings, but he can see bodies lying around like cordwood.  Takes two shots, lays two hostiles out.  Eight rounds.  Can’t think about it now.  Can’t think about anything except the objective: get Steve.  After: help whoever he can.  

The sky gets dark as he reaches Steve’s building, and starts smelling like a storm’s brewing.  The lobby’s empty, and he vaults over a security gate and makes his way up the stairs.  Seven floors, full tilt.  The body will tell you you’re weak.  But you’re strong.

He can hear a fire, crackling somewhere out of sight as he stumbles onto the seventh floor.  The alarms are blaring.  There’s AED bag stuck up next to the elevator, which Sam sends a quick thankful prayer for and slings around his shoulders, shoving the SIG into an outside pocket.  Better than sticking it down the back of his pants, probably.

The office he’s standing in is partially collapsed, ceiling tiles hanging at crazy angles, cubicles crushed under a support column.  There are live wires hanging from the ceiling, spitting sparks.  The only reason the whole place isn’t full of smoke is that the windows are all busted in from the Hulk’s impact.  “Steve!” he yells, and moves forward.  Where would everyone have been?  “Steve!”  By the windows, probably; staring out trying to see what was going on, until it’d been too late to run away.  He finds two bodies, pierced with glass.  “Steve!”

In the second office he checks is a pile of people, and for a moment his heart stops: there’s Steve, sprawled out halfway underneath one of his coworkers, inches from the guy’s staring, open eyes.  He’s got blood all over him, but when Sam rolls the body off him he touches warm skin, feels the unsteady rise of Steve’s chest.  He can’t even feel relieved; Steve is non-responsive, gasping weakly.  He pulls off the AED bag off and lays out the kit, forcing himself not to rip open the pads in his haste.  Steve’s got some stupid button up on, which Sam tears rather than waste precious seconds trying to undo.  One pad up on the right breastbone, the other over Steve’s ribs.  “PLEASE WAIT,” the AED intones, and while it warms up he starts compressions.

He counts.  He always counts.  He blows out the numbers between gritted teeth.  Beneath his hands, he feels the pop and crackle of Steve’s ribs, and then a crunch as at least one of them gives way.  Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.  He tilts Steve’s head back, blows two breaths into his lungs.  The AED’s ready: “CLEAR!”

The shock jolts through Steve like a ragdoll being shaken.  Back to compressions.  There are three people in here with Steve, counting the dead guy who’d fallen on him.  There’s blood from the other two all over the floor, but Sam can’t see if they’re alive from where he’s kneeling over Steve.  Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.  Part of the whale must have actually come into the office, and a huge chunk of the floor’s fallen away into the street below.  Steve’s lucky it didn’t give away entirely.  Through the whistling, gaping hole Sam can hear the battle raging; can hear Iron Man zooming by, can hear the Hulk roaring, can hear lightning crash.  Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.  He tilts Steve’s head back, blows two breaths.   Four rounds of this, the AED ticking the time away next to him until the next shock.  His hands are aching.  His body is aching.  It thinks it’s weak.

Twenty eight, twenty nine, thirty.

Two breaths.

One, two, three, four.

“STOP CPR, ANALYZING,” the AED announces, and Sam shakes out his wrists, puts the backs of his hands on the ground and leans into them, stretching out the muscles.  “CLEAR.”

Another jolt.  Compressions.  Two breaths.  Compressions.  Two breaths.

He doesn’t feel afraid.  He doesn’t feel anything.  His body does the job he sets it to.

“STOP CPR, ANALYZING.”

His shoulders crack when he leans back.  He doesn’t notice.  He’s not tired anymore.  

“NO SHOCK ADVISED.”

He puts shaky fingers to Steve’s neck, and then gives in and puts his ear to Steve’s chest, holding his breath.  Steady heartbeat.  Lungs drawing air, unimpeded.  And above Sam’s head, a weak stirring.

“Steve,” Sam says, and sits up, slaps Steve lightly on the face.  He gets another restless shake of the head, and Steve’s mouth contracts, but that’s it.  Good enough to get him out of here.  Sam throws the AED back into its bag, slings it on.  He checks, but the other two people in the room are dead.  Could there be anyone else alive?  Maybe - the building hadn’t been evacuated and the people in it clearly hadn’t had any time to get out of the way - “Hello?” he calls, as loud as he can, and strains to listen.  Nothing.

He slings Steve over his shoulders in a fireman's carry and jogs back towards the exit.  They need to get the fuck out of there.  He can feel Steve’s heart beating right between his shoulder blades, and lets himself think about that instead of all the other people who might be trapped in the building, with no one else to come for them.

They almost make it.  They’re just passing the fourth floor doors when something shakes the building hard enough to send Sam staggering against the rail.  There’s a moment of silence, and then a grinding, lurching noise from above.  Steve stirs, muttering nonsense into Sam’s ear, and Sam grips him tight, staring up into the flickering darkness above their heads.  Sounded like something had hit the building.  

For a second he thinks it’s okay - maybe the whale had glanced off the side of the building again, taking some chunks with it - and then the lights go dark for real and the stairwell starts to crumble underneath them.  He slams through the doors into the fourth floor and takes off towards light - no plan, no way to tell what’s happening, just sheer instinct and lizard brain survival guiding him.

They go down.  He can feel it happening, feels the ground judder and separate under his feet, and then they’re sliding sideways and _down_ , and they go tumbling through the air.  He can’t break his own fall with Steve on his shoulders - can’t tuck and roll and try and protect his neck - so he does the only thing he can think to do, which is to drop Steve to one side and try not to fall on him.

They hit the ground.  Sam lands neat, rolls to a crouch, finds Steve right next to him and drags them both underneath the desk of the cubicle they’ve just fetched up on.  It’s not gonna save them if the building comes down on top of them but -

He breathes.  He gags and spits god only knows what kind of dust and grit that’s in his throat.  Steve’s covered in a fine layer of dirt, mixing like paint where he’s got blood on him, which is probably about how Sam looks too.  Steve coughs, weakly, and screws up his face like he’s gonna cry.  

“Steve, Steve buddy,” Sam says, patting his face.  “You with me?  Come on, man.”

He’s got Steve tucked close in his arms, both of them wedged awkwardly under the desk.  Everything hurts.  His elbow is screaming at him, and he curls his arm against his chest, wincing.  The left leg of his pants is shredded and bloody.  He moves his other limbs in turn, cautiously.  Steve looks okay; or at least, not worse than he did before.  It’s quiet now - he’s guessing they dropped down to the third floor, but there’s no way to tell if there’s more coming or if something else is gonna hit.  

“Nnngghhhh,” Steve says, and coughs again, deep in his throat.  He still doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t really sound awake.

“Alright, close enough,” Sam tells him, and tightens his arm around Steve’s skinny shoulders, just for a second.  “Alright, I’m gonna get you out of this.  We’re almost done.”

He lays Steve down gently, and crawls out from under the desk.  Dust is thick in the air.  He can’t hear a fire, but he can’t hear much of anything.  Closer to the street, the fight is abruptly louder, and joining it are sirens and the vague boom of tank guns.  Does the NYPD have tanks?  Has the National Guard arrived?  Behind them is a jungle of concrete and electrical wire, unrecognizable as offices and furniture and somewhere people used to be.  Cut off, even if the stairwell was still intact.  There could be another stairwell in a building this big, but he’s not seeing a place to squeeze through safely.  The place they landed is tilted too, he can feel it now that he’s standing up; whatever’s underneath might not hold.   _Fuck_.

He belly crawls towards the windows.  It’s awkward trying not to put any pressure on his elbow, but he doesn’t want to stick his neck out if there are still any aliens flying around.  The windows are smashed to pieces, but the floor’s pretty clear; the impact of the higher floors must have sent the glass spinning out to the street below.  He takes a couple slivers to his forearms and chest anyway, and mindlessly picks them out as he peers over the edge.  There’s a pile of rubble beneath them, but it’s at least - twenty, thirty feet down, best estimate, and god only knows how much broken glass and shit there is to impale yourself on down there.  Fuck.

“Hey Steve!” Sam calls, over his shoulder, breathing steady and deep.  “I ever tell you I used to fly?”

No response.  “Yeah, it’s true,” Sam says, turning himself around and crawling back to Steve.  “That means the guy who came to save your ass is a certified expert at falling, lucky you.”  He pulls Steve out from under the desk, picking him up bridal style. He can’t do much more than brace his left arm against Steve’s weight, and he’s sweating from the pain of it, but it’s not gonna work any other way, if it works at all.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and rolls his shoulder out, bounces a little on his toes, gets nice and loose.  “Yeah, I’d like to see James pull this one off.  Special Forces got nothin on me, baby, I’m a _Falcon_.”

He turns, listening, and there it is again: someone’s calling for help.  Third floor.  Northwest corner.  “I’ll come back,” Sam promises, and takes a deep breath.  

No more hesitation.  No more waiting.

“You ready?  Yeah, you’re ready.  We ready.”

He kicks off, blinded by the sun -

get as much distance from the building as possible -  

he can’t see where they’re gonna land, he’d just aimed at the highest point of the wreckage below them -

and it’ll be sheer dumb luck if either of them walk out of this -

but his body was strong and it gave him all he’d asked of it until this moment, curled around Steve, knees bent, body loose, braced for impact, _this we do -_

_so that others may live._

Something hits him hard around the middle.

He feels the solidity of it - hears a grunt as whatever it is connects - and they’re pinwheeling through the air for breathless seconds until they hit the ground hard enough his head bounces off - off something that doesn’t even hurt, something cool and smooth and smelling of metal.

The wind’s knocked out of him, and also whoever he just landed on top of.  The shrieking pain of his elbow has become an agony radiating all the way up his shoulder.  Sam unlocks his arms, lets Steve roll out of them, lets himself roll off of -

There’s a white guy in a blue costume, big star on the chest, red stripes down the middle, sandy blonde hair, and a face so familiar it hits something inside Sam like a bell and sets every nerve ringing.  “You okay?” the guy asks, and Sam looks down, looks at Steve groaning fitfully, struggling towards consciousness, and says, “Y - yeah, we’re okay.”

The guy pushes to his feet, offers Sam a hand up.  He picks up Steve like he weighs as much as a phonebook, and places him carefully over Sam’s shoulders, keeping him still until Sam can adjust the hold.  Then he picks his shield up off the ground, the one he’d used to cushion their fall, and sticks his arms through the straps on the back, hefting it a little just like he’d done in the movies, in flickering black and white.

“Head to 39th and Lex,” he tells Sam, “There’s medical help down there for your friend.”

Sam nods, and shivers a little at the sound of his voice.  His rescuer looks at him, concerned - concerned even though he’s covered in grime and blood, and looks like he’s been awake for about, yeah, about seventy years.  “You sure you’re okay?”

“There’s people still up there,” Sam says, and looks up, back to where they jumped.  The guy looks up too, and sets his jaw like he’s ready to climb back up there himself.  “The fire department down there too?” Sam asks, before he can.  “I’ll tell ‘em.  I’ll bring ‘em back.”

The guy’s eyebrows lift.  “Yeah?” he asks, sounding doubtful.

“Yeah, man, I got this one,” Sam tells him, and nods up the avenue, towards all the other fires he could be putting out, the other people he could be saving that aren’t dumb enough to launch themselves off the side of a building.  “Go on.”  The guy just looks at him for a second, and then nods, decisively.  He jostles the shield a little, bounces on his toes, and turns away.

“Thanks, Cap,” Sam calls, and the guy throws him a two fingered salute and a wry smile over his shoulder, as he moves on to the next fight.

Sam watches him go.  “Goddamn,” he tells Steve, hefting him up a little higher on his shoulders, getting a more comfortable hold on him.  He gets a grumbly noise for his pains.  “Figures you’d sleep through all that.   _Man_ , you’re gonna be pissed when you wake up.”

The fire department’s at 39th and Lex; so’s the National Guard, and dozens of police, and as Sam jogs down the avenue knots of them detach to receive him.  He can hear the chatter on the radio that they’re about to move in, but for the moment he’s got the full attention of the two paramedics that reach out to take his precious cargo.

“Sternal fracture, possible head trauma.  Unresponsive when I found him.  His name’s Steve Rogers,” Sam tells them, and accepts a water bottle and a moment, just a moment of rest against the bumper of a police car.  “There’s civilians trapped in a partially collapsed building on 40th and Park,” he says, and one of the paramedics waves over a firefighter, who drags along a couple guardsmen in his wake.

“Staff Sergeant Sam Wilson, 58th Pararescue,” Sam says, to introduce himself, and the guardsmen straighten up.  “I can lead you to them.”

“Do you need a minute, sir?” one of them asks, and Sam waves them off.  He’s keeping his elbow in close, but he can manage.  It hardly hurts at all, anymore.  He pushes to his feet, stands steady.  

The paramedics are loading Steve up on to the ambulance.  “Hey, where you taking him!” Sam calls after them.  

“Beth Israel!” the EMT calls back, and swings the door shut.

Sam pulls out his phone.  It’s cracked from one fall or another and there’s no signal, but he taps out _Beth Israel_ anyway, hits send with little prayer on his lips, and tucks it away.  “All right,” he says, lifting his head.  “Follow me.”

 

-  
  


Later.  Hours later.  Tucked into a quiet corner, away from the hubbub and chaos of the emergency room.  Just the hum of all the equipment hooked up to Steve, the soft drip of the tap in the bathroom, the buzz of the TV, as low as Sam could get it.  Manhattan on fire, on the screen.  Manhattan, dark and quiet outside the windows of the hospital.

Sam’s turning his phone over and over in one hand.  It can only be one hand, since he’s got the other up in a stiff sling.  The phone’s at 3% battery, but none of the nurses down the hall had a spare charger.  He’ll try again later, when the shift changes, if it changes, if they hadn’t just called in everyone still alive.  He’d helped out a while here too, after they’d gone back to the wreck of Steve’s office building, after they’d pulled eleven civilians from the third floor and four from the second, after a paramedic had bullied him onto the next ambulance leaving the battle zone.  Eventually he’d started to fade out; eventually he had to listen to his body, and he’d trudged up to Steve’s room and finally given in, let gravity take over.

He feels like he weighs a thousand pounds.  

He hits the phone icon with this thumb, and listens to it ring, and then to James’ voicemail for the - twentieth time, maybe.  Maybe more.  He’s not worried.  The cell networks are overloaded; everyone in the world is calling New York City, trying to find out if their families and friends are safe.  It had taken more than ten tries to get ahold of Lou and talk her into going back to Brooklyn instead of wading uptown to come find him.  The subways are shut down; she’ll have to walk over the Brooklyn Bridge to get there.  He’s still not convinced she’s gonna do it.  

On the bed, Steve sleeps peacefully, drugged to the gills: an oxygen cannula up his nose, an IV drip in his arm, a thick bandage where some nurse had gotten enthusiastic about taping his ribs, padding him out up to his armpits.  Sam’s pretty drugged up too - he’s not high up on the list for surgery at the moment, and it could be a while before he gets anything but painkillers and a nice sling - but all he’s managed to do is sit, and wait.

He’s not worried.  Steve’s gonna be fine.  It’s been too busy downstairs for a doctor to come see them past whoever did Steve’s intake, but Sam’s not worried.  He can see for himself that Steve’ll be fine.

He’s not worried.

He sighs, dropping his phone onto the side table so he can rub a hand over his eyes.  His fingers still smell like smoke.  Onscreen, a skyscraper finally collapses, nearly taking the building next to it down too.

“Hiya,” he hears, and he’s been waiting to hear that voice for so long that for a second he thinks he’s dreaming.

He looks up; James is standing in the doorway.  Sam can hear the nurses talking to each other in the hallway, families in the rooms on either side, unconcerned about the spectre that’s suddenly appeared in their hospital.  James still has one of the alien rifles, which he leans carefully against the wall.  He looks like hell.  He’s lost both his shoes.  He’s smudged with oil and grit and a lot of silvery blood, and he leaves bloody footprints on the linoleum when he shuffles into the room.  He’s walking stiffly besides, his prosthetic arm wrapped around himself to press tight against his ribs.  

“What happened to you?” Sam asks, and shifts forward in his seat with a grunt, one shaky arm bracing himself to stand.

“What happened to _you_ ,” James says, raspy, and settles awkwardly down on the bed before Sam can get to his feet.  He leans forward, grasps Steve’s ankle through the blankets, gaze raking over Steve’s pale face.

“He gonna be okay?” he asks, and slumps over a little when Sam nods, letting out a long, shaky breath.  “You sure?”

His feet are oozing blood onto the floor.  “Yeah,” Sam says, numbly.  “He’ll be fine.  Hey, lemme get you cleaned up.”

He looks up, and is startled to see James staring at him, drinking in the sight of him.  There’s no other way to describe it: he looks like a man who’s been lost.   “In a minute,” he says, and then just - keeps looking at Sam with those big round eyes.  His eyebrows lift and push together as he meets Sam’s gaze.  The plates on his arm whir and resettle.

“In a minute,” Sam echoes, admonishes, and the corner of James’ mouth turns up.  

Sam takes his hand.  

James rests their joined hands on his knees, rubs a thumb over Sam’s wrist.  “C’mere,” he says.  Tugs him forward, a soft _please_.  He makes a quiet noise when Sam does, letting himself sink down into James’ arms, the crown of his head pressing against James’ belly.  He smells like smoke too, and like that frat boy bodywash he likes so much.  

“I knew you’d be fine,” Sam informs him.  “I wasn’t worried about you at all out there.”

“I was sure as hell worried about you,” James says.  He’s tracing the line of Sam’s ear with one gentle thumb, his other fingers curled around the lobe.  “Scared the hell out of me when that building went down.  I thought for sure -”

“Mmm,” Sam says.  He brings his uninjured arm up and puts it around James’ waist.  He closes his eyes, breathes in.  “You should know better’n that.”

“I’m a slow learner,” James says, soft.  “But I get there.”  His other hand wraps over Sam’s shoulders, holding him close.  The angle of Sam’s neck means that James’ bicep is pressed over Sam’s ear, muffling all sound.

“Guess what,” Sam says, a little indistinctly.  “I saw Captain America out there.  Like, the real guy.  The dead one.”

“No shit,” James says.  His hands roaming all over Sam’s back now, soothing away all the hurt.  

“He’s super hot,” he tells James, exhaling the words.  God, that feels good.

“Oh yeah?” James asks, light.  “That another thing we gotta talk about?”

“Maybe,” Sam says, and tightens his grip on James’ waist.  “I was feeling a vibe.”

“Sam,” James says, and curls forward enough to brush a kiss over Sam’s temple.  “Sam, I don’t wanna fight Captain America for you.  I will, but we just got done fighting aliens.  Have mercy on a guy, yeah?”  

“We ain’t even done fighting each other,” Sam assures him, and James laughs, still bent over Sam, the hard shape of his teeth brushing against Sam’s skin.  

“Promise?” he asks, and kisses Sam again, rubs his stubbly cheek over Sam’s like a cat.

James’ lips are damp and a little chapped, and they feel so nice.  Sam’s shoulder is bunching up inside the sling and any minute now his elbow’s gonna remind him of exactly where he cracked it, but it’s so, so nice.  

Shit, he’s fading out hard.  If he opened his eyes there’d be big spots, a dark tunnel forming.  With his eyes closed it doesn’t matter.  James has got him.  Sam’s gonna be fine.

“Yeah, I promise,” he says sleepily, and asks, “Hey, wanna get married?”

James stills, and then presses another kiss to Sam’s temple, to his cheek.  There’s a fine tremor running up his arm, and he presses it firm against Sam’s back, holding him close.  “Thought you were gonna marry Captain America,” he whispers.

“I haven’t even _met_ him yet,” Sam whispers back, scandalized.  He feels himself smiling, feels his toes curl inside his shoes.

“I can take him,” James says, confident, and Sam raises his eyebrows, still sunk into warm darkness.

“That sounds like a yes,” he mumbles, and James doesn’t answer, but his arms stay tight around Sam, and stay there even when Sam drops off finally, _finally_ into sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you have any questions or feedback, you can find me [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hansbekhart).


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